Breaking Point
by Tashue
Summary: -SLASH- Formerly 'Give Me Back My Light'. Turkish and Tommy find Mickey beaten and bloody on the streets of London. Turkish takes him in, and the life he was trying to lead is turned upside down as old memories and habits come flooding back.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the characters or the plot line of Snatch. Guy Ritchie and his wonderful group of movie makers own them. I'm just borrowing them because I want to and I can.

**A/N:** Alright, this thing goes down after the movie, but since I only have a general idea of what I'm doing, I don't know if I'm making any changes to what happened. I'll decide that as I write.

I'm new in this section, my other stories being removed from the site. Why? I'm not entirely sure, but I can tell you that it right pissed me off. But since I'm new here, you don't know the depths of my insanity quite yet. You will find out soon enough, I assure you, and this fic will earn it's M rating, I promise.

This is a slash fic, which means guy on guy action. I'm shameless when it comes to smut, so be forewarned. There's a whole lot of swearing, violence and sex going on in this fic, but hey! Who's complaining? Not me, that's for damned sure!

Enough of my babbling. Let's start the show!

* * *

**Chapter One**

Mickey swung his arms and stretched his back. He bent forwards and backwards, stretching his legs and making sure every muscle in his body was limber and ready. Despite his calm facade, he was terrified.

Sure, he was known for his ability to knock a man out with one punch. Sure, he could take a good beating. He was Irish, after all, and a fist wasn't much different than a belt, assuming the strength was appropriate. But how many punches could he get in before the group of twenty some-odd men that surrounded him bore him to the ground and rendered him helpless? There was, after all, a world of difference between one fist and forty fists.

"Right, boys," he said, scanning the angry faces and feeling so lost and alone. "It's time fer me t' teach ya how the fuck ya fight."

One of them stepped forward, and Mickey held his ground. He was a big man, but Mickey could take him easily. He wasn't worried about this one man.

"Let's be fuckin' honorable about this," Mickey said, swinging his head to loosen his neck. "Let's make it a fair fight. You an' me. Or whoever else has t'e fuckin' balls to take me on."

"I'll take him," another of the men said.

Mickey took a moment to memorize all of their faces. If this fight went south, which was what was most likely to happen, the bastards would learn first hand why everyone kept saying _'I fuckin' 'ate Pikeys'_.

Mickey stepped towards his opponent, staring at him with brooding eyes, trying to make him uneasy. It didn't do much, but Mickey's size, no matter how much anger burned in his eyes, didn't make for a very threatening figure.

The big man came forward, moving quickly despite his weight. He slammed a fist into Mickey's stomach, and the Irish fighter took a step back. The man was strong, but he could name several who were stronger, all of which were unconscious by the time Mickey was finished with them.

Mickey cracked his knuckles, waiting for his golden moment to strike. The man threw him to the ground, kicking him in the chest. Mickey rolled and rose gracefully to his feet.

"Yer a fuckin' brute, I'll give ya t'at," Mickey said with a bit of a grin. "But I've gotta say, yer probably all brawn, and no fuckin' brain."

That sent Mickey's opponent into a rage. With a grunt of hate and anger, the man surged forward, punching Mickey with all the strength he had. Mickey rolled with the blow as the man's fist cannoned against his jaw, and he knew that now was the best time to put an end to this idiocy.

He went with it, pretending to be stunned as he stumbled away from his opponent and dropped to his knees. The man moved in for his victory, but Mickey's body twisted, his leg lashing out and hooking against the back of the man's knee. Even as the heavy man fell, Mickey's fist shot up, slamming against the bottom of the man's jaw in a powerful uppercut that rendered him senseless. As his huge frame hit the ground, unconscious, all hell broke loose.

* * *

Turkish sighed heavily, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. Tommy was ahead of him by about twenty paces, and the younger man was _pissed_. He had specifically told Turkish not to follow him, but Turkish did so anyway, a little uneasy with the thought of Tommy wandering through the night, alone and with a gun that didn't work for shit.

Tommy was trying desperately to shake Turkish, but it wasn't working overly well. He glanced over his shoulder, glowering at the man behind him. Turkish picked up his pace, coming to walk beside Tommy, slowing down to compensate for his partner's shorter legs.

"I thought I told you not to follow me."

"You did, Tommy," Turkish said. "But you never listen to me, so why the fuck should I listen to you?"

"Why won't you just leave me alone?" Tommy muttered glumly, looking down at the ground as they walked.

"Because, Tommy, I don't want ze Germans to get you," Turkish said with a bit of a roll of his eyes.

Tommy sighed, clenching his jaw. "Did you mean it when you said I was a stupid git and you wished you'd never met me?"

"No," Turkish said, echoing Tommy's sigh. "I was angry, and I said it without even thinking about it. Well, the part about wishing I'd never met you. But you are a stupid git."

"Yeah, well," he sounded so confident and sure of himself as he tried to think of a come-back, "you're a . . . an ass, Turkish. You're a bloody fucking ass," he finished lamely.

"This is the thanks I get for bailing you out of everything?" Turkish asked, looking down at his younger companion. "Well, since you don't seem to appreciate the things I do for you, maybe I should stop doing them."

"Go ahead, then. I can take care of myself."

"I'll believe that when I see it," Turkish muttered.

Tommy turned away from Turkish, cutting into an alley. In the buttery lamplight and the faint moonlight, he saw a man lying on the ground, on his side, his arms splayed in front of him and his legs bent slightly. Tommy stopped, staring at the man as Turkish came to stand beside him.

Both men were rather indecisive as to what exactly to do as they stood there, staring down the alley. Tommy bit his lip, looking up at Turkish, waiting for him to decide what to do.

With a bit of a sigh, Turkish strode forward, looking down at the man. He groaned softly, and a certain recognition flared in the boxing promoter's mind. On closer inspection, he realized he knew the beaten man quite well.

"Fuck me, it's that fucking Pikey, Mickey," Tommy breathed, peering over Turkish's shoulder and all his anger forgotten. "Never thought we'd see him again. What do think happened to him?"

"Ze-"

"Germans," Tommy interrupted. "Shut up, Turkish. I mean, seriously."

"I'm not a fucking mind reader, Tommy, I have no idea," Turkish said with a sigh.

Mickey groaned again, floating somewhere close to consciousness. He could hear the voices of the men staring at him, but he couldn't will his body to move, he couldn't open his eyes, he couldn't make a sound any more than the little groans of pain.

Turkish knelt, gently pushing Mickey onto his back. In the darkness, he could see the cuts and swelling on the Irish man's face, and he knew that he had probably pissed someone, or a rather large group of someones, off.

"What should we do, then?" Tommy asked.

"He's probably too heavy for us to carry him," Turkish said, running a hand over his face. "Hurry back to the office and get Gorgeous to come here with the car."

Tommy nodded, but didn't make a move to leave.

"I meant today, Tommy!"

The younger man bolted, running down the street. Turkish looked down at Mickey, not to sure what to do while he waited for Tommy and Gorgeous to come back. Mickey's eyes flickered open eventually, his lips parted as he stared vacantly up towards the sky.

The clouds opened up, rain drops the size of golf balls hammering against the ground. Turkish swore, but knew the storm wouldn't last. Usually storms that started to suddenly and so heavily only lasted twenty some odd minutes, if that.

Over the sound of the raindrops, he heard Mickey groan again, this time forming a word. The particular word summed up the situation, the events that previously occurred and Mickey's state of mind and being rather eloquently.

"Fuck."

Turkish reached down, patting Mickey's shoulder. "Don't worry, Mickey. I'll have you out of the rain soon enough. Do you think you can stand?"

Mickey grunted in response. Turkish looked up as he heard a car approach and he saw that Tommy had arrived with Gorgeous George behind the wheel. Tommy came out of the car to help Turkish, and together they lifted the Pikey to his shaky feet and helped him into the car. He winced with every step and winced even more as he was settled down into the back seat. He grunted a thanks and lay down, holding his arms close to his body as Turkish climbed in the front passenger seat, and Tommy was forced to sink down between him and Gorgeous George.

"Why do I have to sit here?" Tommy whined as Gorgeous pulled out onto the street.

"Because, Tommy, the Pikey's injured so he gets his way. George is driving, and besides, he's too bit to sit in there, and I outrank you so you have to do what I say."

Tommy huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. Gorgeous pressed down on the gas pedal, causing the car to lurch forward and Tommy to fall back. Tommy reassessed his decision to cross his arms over his chest and gripped the seats, but continued to sulk all the way back to the 'office'.

Gorgeous and Turkish helped Mickey into the brand-new caravan, which was funded by the diamond found in 'Daisy's stomach. Mickey broke away from them as they stepped inside, and hobbled over to one of the cushioned benches, sinking down and laying with his back to the men.

Turkish turned to Gorgeous and Tommy, sighing softly. "You guys might as well head home. We'll call it a day for tonight, and I'll see you both in the morning."

"But Turkish," Tommy protested.

"Not now, Tommy," Turkish said with a heavy sigh. "Just go before I remember why I was pissed off at you."

Both men left, Tommy muttering to himself. Turkish turned to Mickey and crouched by the bench, shaking his shoulder.

"Now's not a good time to sleep, Mickey. You might have a concussion."

Mickey grunted in response, shrugging off Turkish's hand. Turkish sighed and stood, pulling off Mickey's boots. He turned and converted the 'kitchen' table into a bed, laying out pillows and blankets. He went back over to Mickey and helped him stand again, bringing him over to the bed.

"You should probably get out of those wet clothes," Turkish decided.

Mickey sunk down onto the bed, holding his head in his hands. Turkish watched him for a moment, knowing something was wrong. Mickey had been beaten bloody, but he seemed to depressed, so forlorn, making Turkish think that something had gone horribly wrong in the Irish man's life since the last time Turkish saw him. Maybe the death of his mum was finally catching up to him . . . ?

"Mickey, you're already in bad enough shape," Turkish insisted. "You don't want to get sick, too, now do you?"

Mickey huffed and pulled his shirt off his body, looking up at Turkish as he did so, his eyes expressing his annoyance and silently asking Turkish if this satisfied him. He dropped his shirt to the floor and stood, pulling open his belt and pulling off his pants, so he stood there in his blood-stained muscle shirt and underwear. Still holding Turkish's gaze, he sank back down, sitting, sarcastically waiting for the next instruction. When Turkish said nothing, Mickey tore his gaze away, laying down on his side and pulling his socks off.

"Gimme a fuckin' drink," Mickey muttered, holding out an arm.

"That probably isn't a good idea."

"Gimme a fuckin' drink!"

Turkish sighed. He usually didn't respond to that kind of tone very well, but he wasn't Mickey's mother. He turned to one of the cabinets and grabbed a bottle of scotch. He shoved the bottle into Mickey's outstretched hand, which elicited yet another grunt as Mickey pushed himself up into a partial sitting position and drunk greedily.

He rolled away from Turkish, clutching the bottle close to his chest and curling his legs up close to his body. Turkish looked down at Mickey, not sure what to do, if anything at all.

"I'm gonna go back to my flat," he announced, hoping that Mickey was still awake to hear him. "There's food in the fridge if you want some. I'll be back at seven tomorrow morning, and I'll bring you fresh clothes."

With that, he turned and headed for the door. He paused when he heard Mickey call a half-hearted 'thank you', then headed out to walk through the rain.

Mickey finally succumb to his emotions when he felt safe he was alone, his strong image crumbling as his entire body started to tremble. His knuckles were white as he clung to the bottle of Scotch, as if it was the only thing keeping him alive and conscious. He bit his lip, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt tears build. He desperately fought against them, taking another drink to soothe his pain, his lasting fear and the burning humiliation. The tears slid down his battered cheeks, but he stayed silent, allowing the trembling to firmly latch onto his frame.

A rather large part of him wanted nothing more than to fall asleep and never wake up.

* * *

Alright, I know that was terribly short, but the next chapters will be longer, I promise. Do tell me what you think. I'm always starving for feedback.

Tashue


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Well . . . I already did this once, but seeing as there's been such a dramatic lapse in time since the last one, I'll do it again for good measure, so everyone knows I haven't forgotten. Turkish, Tommy, Mickey, Gorgeous George and any others from Snatch aren't mine. I'm stealing them and twisting them far beyond anything that Guy Ritchie probably had in mind when he wrote the characters. I'm basking in the right of free speech whilst waving my creative license. Ha.

**A/N:** In the spirit of restating the disclaimer, I feel the need to restate my intentions, just in case you suspected they've changed. they haven't. There will be men doing terribly entertaining things to each other. Terribly entertaining homosexual things. If that's not your dish, piss off. If it is, read on! I do also feel that I should mention that I love to torture characters. Bad things will inevitably happen and I'm not sorry.

That's right, I'm back! I got one e-mail too many from the automated alerts telling me that people are reviewing and wanting more and setting me on their alerts and, well, I started to feel like a dick. So I watched the movie and I read my chapter and I kicked the gears around a tad so they'd start working for me again. After five years, sixteen reviews, six people adding the story to their favorites and 12 people adding it to their alerts, well . . . I couldn't take it anymore. You're dedication and persistence just made me feel all fluffy and fuzzy inside and I had to give something back. I'm here. I'm writing. I'm finishing. Come hell or high water, you people will find out what happens!

That being said, I'm sorry. I'm sorry it took me so long. I'm sorry I was a lazy ass. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you a million times for pushing me, because I'm an attention whore and well, if it wasn't for all the attention, I wouldn't be doing this. I write for my audience and damnit, I can't very well go around neglecting that audience, can I? So here I am, here it is, thank you, thank you, thank you.

Enjoy!

**Chapter Two**

The world was pounding. There was something not quite right about a pounding world. It was pounding and spinning and . . .

Mickey was going to be sick.

He groaned, rolling over onto his back. He shifted around a little until his feet found the edge of the bed, then dangled them off, placing them on the ground. The linoleum tiles were cold under his feet, cooling him a little, and having his feet planted firmly on the floor helped to steady him out a little. It took the edge off the nausea just enough that he was no longer inclined to puke all over himself.

There was a strange buzzing in his head. Something like thought. Maybe a voice. Was someone speaking?

He cracked open his bleary eyes and instantly regretted it. The light sent searing pain through his eyes and head. He groaned again, his throat dry and squeezed his eyes shut. The experiment of opening his eyes succeeded only in telling him that it was daytime and it made his head ache even more. It was the beginning of a bad day.

"Afternoon, sleeping beauty."

Mickey grunted. That was the buzzing. A voice. Someone had been talking, maybe to him, maybe to someone else, but at least that explained the buzzing.

"What'd'ya think's wrong with 'im?"

"Well, fuck me, Tommy, you're extra dense today, aren't you? Did you see 'im last night? Or did you forget already? If you forgot that, did you happen to notice the fucking empty bottle of Scotch sitting on the floor right there? That's explanation enough, don't you think?"

"Was that bottle full when you gave it to 'im?"

"No, Tommy, ze Germans drank it. Then they put the bottle in the cabinet with a few drops left for me to give it to 'im."

"That was an expensive bottle of Scotch, Turkish. Why'd you give 'im that?"

"Fuck, Tommy, I thought he'd had a hard enough night that he deserved a drink. Where's you sense of charity?"

Mickey groaned. All the chattering was making the headache worse.

"Shad ap."

There was a moment of blessed silence.

"What'd he say?"

"I don't fucking know, Tommy. I can't understand him, just as you can't."

"Shad ap!"

"I think he's telling us to shut up, Turkish."

Mickey grabbed the first thing he could find - a pillow, as it happened - and threw it with all his might. He didn't open his eyes to watch the trajectory, but he hoped it would get his point across.

"I think you should shut up, Tommy. I think he's got in in for you."

"Well, you're talking, too."

Mickey rolled over onto his side and pulled the last remaining pillow around his head in an effort to drown them out. His entire body screamed with pain at the sharp movement, parts of him hurting that he didn't even know he had. He groaned loud, his parched throat sore, but there wasn't much he could do about it. Drinking water meant getting up. Getting up wasn't on his list of things he wanted to do.

"Maybe you should get out. Our Pikey friend here isn't seeming like he's much interested in our company. Don't argue, Tommy! I'll follow you in a few."

There was grumbling, incoherent but unhappy, then the caravan door opened and swung shut. Stillness and blessed, blessed silence almost lulled Mickey to sleep. Then the sound of nice shoes clunking on shit linoleum filled the air and Mickey feared more talking was coming.

"How you feeling, Mickey?"

Mickey grunted.

"Well, I guess that about sums it up, then, doesn't it? Is there anything I can get you?"

Mickey grunted.

A sigh. "You're version of English is hard enough to understand when you actually use words, Mickey. I don't speak caveman. Or . . . Cave Pikey."

Mickey twisted his body, flinging the pillow away and glaring up at Turkish with hurting, bleary eyes. "What t'e fuck ya sayin', Turkish? Sayin' I'm any less o' a man than ya?"

Turkish looked a little stunned, holding up his hands. He paused, just to make sure he fully understood Mickey's words, then shook his head. "That's not what I'm saying at all, Mickey. I was just making a joke. You know, I say something funny, you laugh, I laugh, we all feel better. I didn't mean anything by it at all. There's no need to get touchy."

"Fuck you, touchy," Mickey muttered, rolling over again, presenting his back to Turkish. "Got every fuckin' right t'be fuckin' touchy."

"Right, well . . . I don't mean to pry or anything, but what the fuck were you doing out there all on your own, anyway? You Pikeys always seem to travel in . . . flocks. And I thought you left London, any way."

"'T'ain't none of yer fuckin' business."

"Fuck, Mickey, what's crawled up your damned ass and died? I mean, maybe I'm not a close fucking friend or anything, but I am the one who scraped you off the damned sidewalk and gave you a bed to sleep in for the night. And a damned expensive bottle of Scotch, too. I think I deserve a little fucking respect, if not a little gratitude."

Mickey squeezed his eyes shut, wincing inwardly. Turkish was right, of course. But fuck, did those words sting and he'd be damned if he had to apologize to any living soul. Apologizing was a show of weakness and Mickey was anything but weak. So he said nothing.

"Right, well, seems like you've got a long list of places you'd rather be. So if you want, I can drive you home. Wherever . . . home is for you these days."

Mickey gritted his teeth, clenching his fists around the blanket, even though it hurt. Home. What a word. What a cruel, ugly fucking word. He'd kill to be _home_. But _home_ was further away than it had ever been in his entire life. _Home_ was unreachable.

"Mickey?"

"I fuckin' 'eard ya. I ain't . . . Ain't ready to go home jus' yet. Jus' . . . gimme 'til tamorraw mornin' an' I'll be outta yer hair. Deal?"

Turkish shifted from one foot to the other, processing and translating. "Tomorrow morning?"

"'S right. Tamorraw mornin'."

"Right, then. Tomorrow morning. I sure as fuck hope you're a little more peachy tomorrow. I don't right feel like listening to your fucking growling all the way to . . . wherever you're going."

Mickey said nothing, wishing Turkish would just leave already. Finally, he heard that clunk and the caravan door opened. Before he could stop himself, his voice was working.

"Turkish . . ."

Turkish paused. Mickey turned toward him, squinting at his silhouette in the doorway. He wanted to say something nice, something that showed he wasn't really as much of an ass as he was making himself out to be, but the words 'thank you' were sticking in his throat and 'I'm sorry' was out of the question. Turkish was staring at him, waiting, expectant, but his patience wasn't going to last forever and Mickey just could say the nice things he'd had in mind. He settled for the next thing that popped into his head.

"Ya got anymore o' t'at damned fine Scotch?"

Turkish sighed heavily. "No, but I do happen to have a bottle of bourbon. But I don't want you drinking it all and I sure as a sweet fuck don't want you this bitchy tomorrow morning. So if you want to drink yourself stupid, by all means, go ahead, but leave some for me and make damned fucking sure you can keep yourself civil tomorrow."

Mickey raised a hand to his forehead in a mock salute. "Yessir."

Turkish rolled his eyes and turned from the door. He found the promised bottle of bourbon in the cabinet and handed it over.

"I want half the bottle left, Mickey. You understand?"

Mickey nodded as he opened the bottle and took the first pull. Turkish shook his head and left. Finally alone, Mickey made a good start at drowning his brain in booze.

* * *

"So? What's going on, Turkish? Is the Pikey leaving?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow . . . ?" Tommy scoffed. "Fuck me, Turkish, how the fuck are we going to get any fucking business done with a fucking Pikey passed out in our fucking office?"

Turkish paused in his walk, turning an angry stare on Tommy. "Since when are you so fucking concerned about business? Ever since that fucking squeaky mutt and the diamond, all you've been interested in is sitting on yer lazy ass and spending your share of the money. So when the fuck did you get concerned about business?"

"I've always been concerned about business," Tommy muttered, but the half-hearted self defense was a pretty good indicator that he knew he was full of shit. "Anyway, that's not the point, is it? Why the fuck is there a Pikey using our office as a fucking hotel?"

"Holy shit, Tommy, did you see 'im last night?" Turkish demanded. "The man had the living shit kicked out of 'im. I think he could use a safe place to sleep after a night like that!"

"That fuckin' Pikey 'asn't given us nothing but trouble! So why are we helping 'im? That's all I want to know!"

"It's just human fucking decency!"

"Since when are _you_ concerned about decency, anyway?" Tommy muttered.

Turkish narrowed his eyes, as his lip pulling back in a primal snarl. "I can't believe I'm having this conversation with you. And I sure as fucking hell don't appreciate you implying that I don't give two rat's balls about decency. The man needs a helping hand, Tommy, and we're giving it to 'im. Frankly, I'm fucking disgusted that you're having such a hard fucking time accepting that."

He spun on his heel and started to walk away. Tommy scurried after him.

"But Turkish!"

"Shut the fuck up before I strangle you with that stupid fucking tie. What the fuck are you wearing a tie for, anyway?"

Tommy looked down at the tie in question, smoothing it out. "I thought it looked nice, is all. Why are you taking it so personally? That's all I want to know. You sound like you're defending your own blood or something."

"I don't want to discuss it anymore. He's leaving in the morning, anyway. That'll be the end of the whole damned issue and you can go back to sitting on yer lazy ass and spending your share of the money."

"But . . ."

"Shut up, already!"

"Alright, alright, I'm shutting up."

He fell silent and Turkish breathed a sigh of relief. They were out in the street, now, out in public where people could see and hear and he didn't feel like slinking away under the curious or outraged stares of passers-by. Tommy could be as dense as ten feet of concrete, sometimes. Why was it so hard for him to wrap his brain around this idea? The Pikey - Mickey - was obviously in a bad spot of trouble, or at least just a bad spot, and he needed somewhere to be safe. And even though Tommy was right, even though Mickey and his bunch had been nothing but trouble for Turkish in the past, how could he leave a human being laying there in the street, practically drowning in his own blood? Sure, London's underbelly was a sink-or-swim kind of place and sure, if Turkish took even every poor whelp he saw bloodied in the street, he could run a damned hotel service, charge fifty pounds a head and be bloody rich by Christmas, but there was something different about last night. There was something totally and completely wrong about what he saw last night that he could just walk away. Maybe it was because Mickey was such a brass-balls little shite that it would take a serious problem to lay him low. Or maybe, Turkish's mind was replaying the scene in his head far too vividly now, maybe it was that his belt was undone. Who undoes their belt in the middle of a fight? Or maybe it was just because Mickey was a familiar face.

Or maybe Turkish was actually taking it personally.

"I still say you're taking it personally."

Turkish almost shuddered. The words were too well timed with his thoughts, but there was no way in hell Tommy could know what he was thinking. For a moment, Turkish wondered if it had actually been Tommy saying it, or maybe it was just his own inner voice pointing it out so he couldn't hide from it anymore.

"What?"

"I said I still say you're taking it personally," Tommy repeated. "And I think I'd like to know why."

"I'm not taking it personally, Tommy."

"I know you by now, Turkish. I know when you're full of shit and I say you're full of shit."

"Fuck, that tie's making you ballsy."

"What? It's got nothing to do with the tie . . . Stop trying to change the subject!"

"No, Tommy, I'm changing the subject because I don't want to talk about it anymore. I'm going home. You should do the same."

"But I want to know!"

"I'm not taking it personally!" Turkish roared.

Tommy paused, his eyes widening. The passion in Turkish's voice was more than Tommy usually got, even when he was grating on Turkish's nerves. Then his eyes got narrow when he realized it meant he'd touched one of those _sensitive_ nerves. Like a bloodhound with a scent, he knew he was on the right track, fuck him. Turkish glanced around and realized that he'd gotten himself into exactly the situation he'd hoped to avoid. People were staring.

"Go home, Tommy. I'll see you tomorrow, after I drive the fuckin' Pikey home."

"Fine, then, be a stubborn cunt."

Turkish narrowed his eyes dangerously. "What'd you say? Be careful, now, pencil dick, or that tie is going to be your worst fucking nightmare."

"I, uh, didn't say anything, Turkish. I'm just glad he's going home tomorrow. And what've you got against my tie?"

Turkish rolled his eyes again and turned away, walking home. Tommy finally dropped it and let Turkish leave, but he wasn't through. He wasn't going to leave this alone. It was going to be a long fucking week.

* * *

That's all for now, folks. My back is cramped, my eyes are tired, my shoulder's doing something funny and, well, there just isn't anywhere else for this chapter to go. They will get longer as I go, this I can say because it's my modus operandi. Chapters always get longer until they're morbidly out of proportion with earlier chapters.

I part with the solemn promise that I will NOT take five years to come up with Chapter Three. Give me a week, more or less. Though maybe less as I tend to be mildly obsessive once I get going on something. I know this is going well because my brain was telling me what's going to happen later as I was writing the scenes, and, well, that's always a damned good sign.

I'll see ya's all again very, very soon. Or, rather, you'll see more from me . . . I know what I'm talking about, I swears it.

-Tashué

(PS. Uck. What a bad title. I may or may not be changing it. I'll give you all fair warning, though.)


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Alright, here it is, as I promised, chapter three. Within days! Hurray! But with the good news of the swift update I promised, there is also some bad news. My computer is acting funny. It's a nice little laptop, so I was able to take it to the store where I bought it and they said it's a manufacturing problem and I didn't buy a store warranty, so I have to send it to the manufacturers. The technician I spoke to says it usually takes about three to four weeks for it to be returned, but I wouldn't be surprised if it took longer.

How does this affect you, right? Well, here it is. It's the only computer I have. I can't very well be posting chapters without a computer, can I? So you won't see anything new for a while. It will, however, take me a while to get the computer sent away. I'm a single parent and, well, though it's easy to snatch a few hours during the day to type away like a madman, it's not so easy to get somewhere that doesn't involve the kids, and to send the computer, I have to use one of those fancy and likely highly expensive shipping companies. Arg. How does _this_ affect you? It probably means I'll get a couple chapters up before I loose my computer. I will, however, let you know when I post the chapter if it is destined to be the last for the month or so it will take for me to get my computer back (hopefully in tip-top shape). And when it comes back, I'll be working on this very story again. I swear. This is not the signal for another five-year lapse between chapters! It will only be a few weeks. But I just wanted to give you all fair warning.

Anyway, that's quite enough of my babbling for now. You probably just want to read the story.

Go ahead! Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Sunlight crept along the horizon, staining the sky with brilliant colors. The night was fading away, slowly but surely, leaving no trace of the stars that had hung above the world only a while before. There wasn't much traffic on the streets yet, since it was still relatively early, but soon, the arrival of dawn would correspond with the congestion of the roads for morning rush hour. Winter was on its way, the days growing continuously shorter.

Turkish felt like a pile of dog shit. He'd done the exact thing he'd essentially asked Mickey not to. He found his bottle of damned fine whiskey and drank far more than his system could handle. Far, far more. And then some. He didn't usually drink like that. Rarely did he drink like that. But last night, he did. Last night, he couldn't get a hold of himself, couldn't smother the memories that he'd been smothering for years. He couldn't pull his head out of the past and the more he drank, the worse he felt and the worse he felt, the more he drank to try to shut out the thoughts he couldn't handle anymore.

But he rose early. He got dressed and he climbed into his car. Even though his head was pounding and his stomach was less than pleased with him, even though his mouth felt like he'd been sucking on a desert through the night and his eyes felt like they were coated in sandpaper, even though he felt like shit, he was going to bring Mickey home. He'd promised. He didn't want to make Mickey wait any longer than he had to. Pikeys were a close knit group. They probably missed him and worried about him, and Mickey was probably homesick by now. And he needed, desperately _needed_ to get Mickey out of his caravan before he went insane.

Suddenly, there was the ass end of a car in front of him. He swore, jerking the wheel to the side as he slammed on the brakes. The person backing out of the parking lot had stopped, too. Turkish swore, leaning on his horn. The other driver was proudly displaying his middle finger, as if it was Turkish's fault. There was a small, but growing, urge to get out of the car and break open the bastard's face. He took a few breaths, forcing himself to stay calm as he started driving again, giving the driver a wide berth. This was why he always made Tommy drive. He couldn't handle the idiots.

He arrived at the abandoned warehouse, driving into the underground parking lot. It was here that he kept the caravan office. The warehouse had been abandoned for so long that it had been forgotten, forgotten by the people, forgotten by the city. No one was going to tear it down, no one was going to try to rebuild. It was a perfect, secure place. No where was better to hide than a place that was in plain sight but utterly forgotten and ignored.

He parked and climbed out of the car, heading to the caravan. It was dark in the parking lot, without windows to let in the light of the sun. They had managed to set up lights that ran from a small generator, but no one had been around yet to turn them on. The only light came from inside the caravan, a light that Mickey had left on, or maybe that he had turned on to get himself dressed. Turkish waited a moment, giving extra time in case Mickey was in the middle of dressing. Surely he would have seen the headlights and heard the car, but he wasn't anxious to walk in on a naked Pikey.

When he was tired of standing there, practically with his thumb up his ass, he walked in. The caravan was empty. He though for a second that Mickey was just in the washroom, but the door was open, the light off. Mickey's clothes were gone. The light that was on was in the kitchen, just over the sink. With a furrowed brow, Turkish walked over to it. He spotted the empty bottle of bourbon. It was sitting on sixty pounds in notes, and in front of it was a scrap piece of paper. Mickey's quick, sloppy writing was scrawled across it, the words _For the bourbon_ with an arrow pointing to the money.

"Well, fuck me sideways," Turkish mused, moving the bottle to pick up the notes. "Never thought I'd see the day a Pikey paid someone back."

He looked around. The Pikey was gone. He was relieved. But . . . he was disappointed.

"Don't go there," he muttered to himself, pocketing the notes. "You left that behind."

He looked around again. The bed was messed, but that was about it. If it weren't for the letter, the empty bottle and the notes, there was hardly a trace that he had ever been in the caravan. He realized that he should be grateful, after all. There was nothing more he had to do but put the bed back together. He didn't have to drive, didn't have to deal with a hung-over, beat-to-shit Pikey. And the notes and the letter were probably the closest thing to gratitude a non-Pikey ever, _ever_ received. He was doing well, really. So why was he disappointed?

"You know why," he muttered. "Don't go there."

"Who are you talking to?"

His heart leaking in his throat, Turkish spun around to see Tommy standing in the open doorway. His stomach quivered at him, still doing loops from the shock. He sneered.

"What are you doing here so early, Tommy?" he growled. "You should still be drooling on your pillow at this hour."

"I wanted to make sure the Pikey was leaving, is all," Tommy said, pushing his hands into his pockets and doing that sulky slouch that made Turkish want to punch him in the head. "Who were you talking to?"

"No one," Turkish admitted. "Just thinking out loud."

"Right. Well, is he gone?"

"Yes, Tommy, he's gone. So you can quit sulking, now. He must have left in the night."

"Good fucking riddens, I say. So we can get back to business, then?"

"Yes, Tommy, you can go back to scratching your balls and I can go back to business."

"Why are you so bitchy, Turkish? I didn't beat the damned Pikey."

"Fuck me, Tommy, are you even human?" Turkish breathed. "No, no, I'm not having this conversation again. For some reason, you're fucked in the head. Extra fucked in the head over this Pikey. I don't know why and I don't give two flying shits. I'm going home."

"What . . . ?"

He spun on his heel and left Tommy in the dust.

"Turkish!"

He stalked back to his car and climbed in, slamming the door shut and gunning the engine. The damned fucking prat was grating on his nerves extra hard. He was acting strange over the Pikey, but Turkish _was_ taking it personally. He knew that, now. He'd known it all night. Ever since Tommy pointed it out. Turkish knew it.

In the middle of the street, Turkish slammed on the brakes. He reached down under the street and pulled out his crowbar. It was for just in case. Just in case the car needed it and just in case some asshole needed it. He need it now. Good God Almighty, he needed it now. He opened the door and he climbed out. There was a mailbox sitting there, perfectly harmless, minding its own business. But the poor, innocent mailbox was going to die today.

The first swing jarred his arms. The second swing made his teeth chatter. The third was painful, but the mailbox was receiving more damage than he was and that made it worth it. It dented more and more and more until it was a fragment of what it had been, a lumpy, deformed fragment of its previous being. Like his sanity. He smashed it more and then his fury was spent and gone, as dead as the poor mailbox.

He spun on his heel and stalked back to his car. People were staring at him again, but this time, he didn't care. As he climbed back into the driver's seat, he tossed the crowbar in the back and drove home. He made it without murdering anymore inanimate objects.

Safe at home, he sank into his armchair, kicking off his shoes. He found himself staring at the bottle of whiskey. It wasn't empty. In fact, it was still half full. And half was approximately how much took to get him so damned smashed last night.

Shaking his head, he glanced at his watch. It was far too early in the morning to start in on the whiskey. Some tea would be appropriate, but damn, tea just wasn't good enough. Whiskey would be better, much, much better, but he knew having whiskey first thing in the morning was crossing a line he didn't even want to go near. He'd seen what happened when a man crossed that line. It was a thin line, almost invisible to someone who didn't know what it looked like, but he wasn't going there. He wasn't going anywhere _near_ there.

But he was taking it personally. And he knew why. He saw Mickey laying there in that alley and he thought. He remembered. Something he'd thought he'd forgotten, something that happened decades ago, he remembered. Like diving into ice-cold water, he felt his lungs collapse, felt the air rush out of his chest and he felt his heart freeze and felt all conscious thought cease. And in that moment that lasted an eternity, he was twenty-one again and he was in Liverpool again and he was dying again with the rain mixing with his blood and vomit. And even though there was no proof, no real reason for him to think so, he knew, _knew _with every fiber of his being that Mickey he experienced the same thing. That's why he was taking it personally. And that was why he obliterated his brain and his liver with whiskey and that was why he was tempted to do it again at eight in the morning. He'd lived through it and now Mickey was living through it and there wasn't a damned thing he could do to help, to protect, to change it.

He pushed himself to his feet, walking across the room and grabbing the whiskey bottle. He held it in his hands, feeling its weight, staring at the liquid amber contents, imagining the burn of it. Whiskey would numb it all.

But it wouldn't help a damned thing.

With a sigh, he turned and walked to the cabinet and put the whiskey away. No matter how hard it was to deal with, he wasn't going to cross that line, not now, not ever.

He turned and walked back to his chair, sinking in. Now he was staring at his keys. The car keys were sitting there, right beside where the whiskey bottle had been. The keys were a thousand times more tempting than the bottle. But picking up those keys was another line that he wasn't sure if he could cross. He'd left that place, that person behind when he left Liverpool and came to London. And if he picked up the keys, he'd go back to that person. Maybe he could hide it for a while, but not forever. And then what? Another move? Another city? Another life? Was he young enough to start over again? He'd been here so long, established so much. Was he really willing to risk being forced to start over? _Again_? But it was the right thing to do. He knew it with every fiber of his being. It was the right damned thing to do. There were two things he could do, now, he figured. He could go for the whiskey or grab the keys. And doing the right thing or he could go down the road toward becoming an alcoholic.

With a curse, he stood up and grabbed his keys. Leaving his apartment, he climbed back into his car and starting driving. He didn't go anywhere specific, driving and stopping and looking. He drove slow and he flipped off anyone who dared to honk or swear, but he drove. He drove through the terrible traffic and he stopped in no-stopping zones. He didn't give a fuck. He knew what had to be done. He had to find the fucking Pikey.

* * *

Night had arrived. The sunset was over, its beauty spent for one day, the sky darkening as the starts appeared, one by one at first, then clumps of them. The arrival of night found Turkish in a pub, nursing a pint and feeling like an idiot.

The _entire day_ had been spent trying to find Mickey. The entire fucking day wasted. What had he been thinking? The Pikey didn't need him. He could take care of himself. And, more than that, a Pikey wasn't found unless he wanted to be. He'd probably been back in his own damned caravan by the time Turkish even started looking. It had been a waste of time, a waste of effort, a waste of his thoughts and emotions and resources. He was a stupid, stupid, stupid moron. What the hell had he been thinking?

He finished off his pint, sucking back the last dregs at the bottom of the glass and nodding to the bartender for another. The sixty pounds Mickey had left for the bourbon was slowly being eaten away by his thirst. He was taking a step closer to that stupid line, now, but at least it was late enough in the day that no one looked twice at him for drinking so much. That, at least, was a small victory. He wouldn't get as smashed as he had last night, that he swore to himself. He'd be coherent enough to get home safe, and then he'd crawl into bed and pull the covers over his head and sleep away his stupor and his stupidity.

He was so glad he was alone. He was glad he didn't have to explain himself to anyone, especially not Tommy. That stupid git would never let him live this down.

He slid his third empty glass away and nodded for another. The bartender slid one over. It tasted best fresh. He savored the first few sips, then started tanking it back.

"Rough day?"

Turkish glanced up. There was a woman sitting two stools away. She wasn't bad looking, if a little on the old side. She had a predatory look in her eye and Turkish knew already what she was hoping to achieve by talking to him.

"Somethin' like that," he muttered, trying to figure out how to let her down gently.

"Me, too," she said. "It's what I get for trying to work in a man's world, I suppose, but . . . Well, that's going to be a long story if I let myself get any further." She gave a smile that Turkish supposed was intended to look forced and tired, and it kind of did, but the sparkle in her eye betrayed her. "What about you? What's got you in such a drinking mood?"

Turkish shook his head. "Nothin' I want t' talk about with a stranger." He closed his eyes, his head swimming around a bit after the shake.

"Oh, well, that's alright," she said. "We could talk about happy things, if you want. Have any family?"

Turkish shook his head again and said nothing, draining the last of his glass. She was leaning in closer, still waiting for a response. She wasn't getting the hint. Turkish glanced at the bartender, who was staring at him like he was insane for so obviously trying to turn the woman down. He knew he should go for it, if only to save face, if only to force his feet back onto the right track, but he couldn't do it. He couldn't pretend tonight.

"No family, then?" she asked, still trying to kick-start the conversation.

"No family," he confirmed. He was trying to figure out a way to tell her 'I'm not interested' without actually saying 'I'm not interested' and the beer he'd had before was making the thought process move rather slowly.

"Friends?"

Turkish sighed, reaching into his pocket and retrieving a note to pay for his drinks. He pushed himself to his feet, feeling a wave of dizziness wash over him with brutal force. He put a hand on the bar to steady himself and looked at her. The subtle hints weren't working.

"Miss, I'm not interested."

He turned and left. And, against his better instincts, he got in his car and started looking for Mickey again.

* * *

Mickey walked down the streets of London, his hands shoved in his pockets. As he turned a corner, he spotted a familiar car parked on the street and a familiar driver walking over to it. His heart freezing in his chest, he sank back, letting the shadows of the nearby alley bathe his body in darkness that made him nearly invisible. From those shadows, he watched Turkish climb into his car and drive away, going slowly, more slowly than people went when they were just driving straight home. Maybe he was drunk or maybe he was looking for someone. Whatever it was, Mickey didn't want to be seen by him.

When Turkish was long gone and not likely to come back, Mickey stepped out of the alley and started down the street again. As he came to a place just a little ahead of the bar that Turkish had staggered out of, caught under a street lamp and too far from any alleys to hide in, the same damned car came down the street from where it had left. Mickey froze mid-step, his muscles tensing then reminding him how sore they were with a fresh spasm of pain. He put his head down and kept walking, trying not to look, trying to shrink into himself and disappear so Turkish wouldn't see him. He didn't want to see Turkish.

The car slowed, pulled over. Mickey cursed under his breath and started walking faster. But Turkish was climbing out of his car, looking right at him. Turkish had seen him and there wasn't a damned thing Mickey could do about it.

"Mickey?"

Mickey swore under his breath again, slowing down as he tried to figure out what to do. He wasn't sure what Turkish wanted and he wasn't sure he wanted to find out. If the damned bastard was pissed about something . . . Well, if he tried anything, Mickey would lay him out. End of story. He couldn't take twenty big Britts, but he could take one medium one, easy.

"Mickey, jus' a second," Turkish breathed as he caught up.

He reached out and grabbed Mickey's arm. Mickey tensed again, his body screaming with pain this time, but he spun, wrenching his arm from Turkish's grasp and coming to face him. His fists were clenched and ready to start swinging, but Turkish took a surprised step back, holding out his hands to show he had no violent intentions.

"What'd'ya want, Turkish?" Mickey muttered.

"I jus' . . . Wanted t' see ya. How . . . How are ya doin'?"

Mickey raised an eyebrow, taking a step back. "I'm . . . fine. Shit, you smell like ya're damned half pickled, b'y. What're ya doin' sittin' behind a damned wheel?"

Turkish sighed heavily. "Didn't hit me so much 'til I . . . got up. Then, well, I was . . . Already driving. Already lookin' for you." He paused and burped, his eyes slipping out of focus for a second. "Damned brew hit me a little . . . harder than I thought."

"Fuck me, Turkish. Yer damnedable stupid git fer driving 'round like t'is. Why t'e hell were you lookin' fer me?"

"Jus' to see if you were alright . . . After what . . . happened."

Mickey felt cold inside, felt himself shrink a little. But he shook it off. Turkish couldn't possibly know what happened or why. He was just . . . Drunk and stupid, that was Mickey's best guess.

"Well, I'm fine, t'anks fer askin'. Pride's a little bruised, is all. Ya got . . . Anyone ya c'n call . . . t' take ya home?"

"Uh . . ." He tried to put his hands in his pockets but missed. "No." He tried again. "No, I don't."

"Fuck, Turkish," Mickey muttered, running his hand over his face. "I can't very well leave ya like t'is, now, c'n I? 'Specially not after ya took me in. Can't be havin' ya crashin' into a post or some such. C'mon, t'en. Git in yer car."

Turkish looked at him. "But I think I forgot somethin' . . . in there." He pointed toward the tavern, then patted his pockets, trying to figure out what was missing. "My wallet, I think. I forgot my wallet . . ."

Mickey sighed as he glanced into the car. "Turkish . . . Yer wallet's right t'ere."

Turkish leaned over and looked into the passenger seat. "Uh . . . Oh."

"Git in," Mickey muttered. "You ain't drivin' no more t'night."

Nodding dully, Turkish sank into the passenger seat as Mickey sat in the driver's seat. The keys were still sitting in the ignition and waiting. He glanced over at Turkish, who was slumped down in his seat with closed eyes.

"Where d'ya live?" Mickey asked.

Turkish groaned. Mickey huffed and reached over, grabbing Turkish's wallet and looking through his cards until he found Turkish's driver's license.

"Hope t'is be the right address, Turkish. Otherwise this'll be a damned long night, and I ain't in no mood for no long nights. Even though y'ain't listenin' and yer too damned sauced t'be understandin' anyway, I think ya should be warned."

Turkish grunted. Mickey shook his head and started driving. He made his way to a flat not far from the pub and was pleasantly surprised when Turkish's keys worked in the locks. He half-helped, half-carried Turkish up the stairs to his floor. He found Turkish's bedroom and made him sit, taking off his shoes and peeling him out of his coat. That was as far as he was willing to go. He left the keys on Turkish's bedside table and stepped out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him. He could already hear Turkish snoring.

He sank down onto an armchair, holding his head in his hands. He was tired, so damned tired. He was sore, too, and damnit, as much as he hated to admit it, even if it was only to himself, he was scared. He was scared because he didn't have anywhere to go. He was scared because it was night again and he didn't feel like wasting away in a pub until the wee hours of the morning, when everyone got kicked out. He was scared because he didn't want to spend the rest of those hours trying to find a half-decent place to sleep. He'd been sleeping in hotels for a while, but his money was running out, the wad of cash that he'd taken when he left the campsite was dwindling. He was scared because fencing stolen goods wasn't nearly profitable enough to keep him alive without anyone else to help him. He was scare because he was running out of ways to get those goods. Pick pocketing and tricking people out of things hadn't worked. It wasn't enough. And there was nothing else he knew how to do. He didn't have a social security number so he couldn't get an honest job. He didn't have any connections in London so he couldn't get a dishonest one. He was running out of options fast and he didn't know what to do.

And he was tired.

He sighed, dragging the coffee table a little closer to put his feet up on it. He shifted in the chair, sinking down a little ways. He'd sleep here a bit, just a few hours. Turkish was dead to the world anyway. He'd never know. Mickey could just sleep for a few hours, then leave, and Turkish would be none the wiser. He crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes. And though there were a million worries floating through his mind, he drifted off, only to be haunted by endless nightmares.

* * *

-Tashué


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Alright, so here's chapter four. It's probably going to be the last for a while, since I'm planning on sending the computer away sometime this week . . . I'll try to get chapter five up before then, but there's no real guarantees. The sooner it leaves, the sooner it comes back, right?

That being said, I've figured out a new title for the story, if it's something I can change. I think it is. I will be calling it _Breaking Point_. I won't change it, though, until I get the computer back. So there's plenty of time for people to read this between now and then.

That's it for the babbling. Read on! Enjoy!

**

* * *

**

**Chap****ter Four**

Consciousness was slow in coming. It snuck up on Mickey, easing him into the waking world with all the stealth and grace of a predator. He found himself trying to catch it, trying to tear himself from his dreams, but it wasn't working. Consciousness was coming only on its own terms.

There was something going on out in the waking world that he was curious about. He could hear noises out there that he knew he should be paying attention to. There was a voice, wasn't there? A voice and . . . Something else. Footsteps in a big kitchen, footsteps on hardwood floor. The voice was familiar. He knew it was important that he should be waking up now, knew that he needed to be on his feet, but consciousness wasn't coming fast enough to tell him why he knew the things that he knew, why those things were important.

Then he caught it. His eyes opened and consciousness was upon him. And he just about panicked.

It was morning, the sun shining boldly through the window. Turkish was hanging up the phone and boiling water. Mickey was still in the armchair, his feet still up on the coffee table. He nearly fainted as his heart decided to stop beating. He wasn't supposed to be here when Turkish woke up. He was only supposed to sleep for a few hours, then leave. Turkish wasn't ever supposed to know that Mickey had stayed.

Turkish glanced over his shoulder. "Mornin'. Suppose I owe you a favor, for bringing me home and all."

Mickey sat up, trying not to look as embarrassed as he felt. "Naw, Turkish. We'd be 'bout e'en now, I'd say. Ya helped me out couple o' nights back, now I's the one who helped ya. So we'd be e'en."

"Would you . . . like some coffee?" he asked. "I don't usually drink this shit, but when I'm hung over. Helps a little. Want some?"

"Um . . . sure. Sure, yes. Thank you."

Turkish nodded. There was a long, awkward silence. Mickey looked around, rubbing his hands together and biting the inside of his lip. What could he say? How could he explain being here?

"So, if you don't mind my asking . . ."

"I mind," Mickey interrupted. "I mind. A lot. So jus' . . . don't ask. At all."

"Alright, then . . ." Turkish said, pouring two cups of coffee. "I . . . won't ask, then."

He carried them into the living room, setting them both down on the coffee table. He sank into the chair facing Mickey, looking at him. He wanted to know. He was staring at Mickey with intense hazel eyes of a man who had questions and wanted answers. Mickey knew the questions already. Why did you sleep here? Why aren't you at your own home? Why are you still in London? Why were you even alone that night I found you? Why aren't you with your friends, your family?

Mickey looked away, broke the eye contact first. He picked up his mug and took a sip, trying to bide time as he figured out what to say. Turkish spoke first.

"Do you need me to bring you anywhere?"

Mickey shook his head. "I'll be findin' me own way. I don't need any more from you. I'll be out of yer . . ." He looked up and smiled, " . . . hair . . . soon enough."

Turkish snorted and smirked. "It's been a while since I heard a bald joke. Even if it was piss poor."

Mickey shrugged, taking another sip. "'S been a while since I made a bald joke."

Turkish smiled, shaking his head as he took a sip. He winced at the flavor, shaking his head again. Mickey looked down, spinning one of the rings on his fingers. He was chewing on the inside of his lip again, a habit his ma would smack him on the cheek for and tell him to stop. At least, a habit she used to smack him for. God, he missed her. At the thought of her, Mickey felt the old emotions build up again, catching in his throat and making his eyes water. Not only had he lost her, but he'd lost everyone else. Everyone that had ever meant something to him was gone. It was just him, now, alone in the world, totally and completely alone in a way he never thought possible, in a way that no Pikey would ever imagine.

"Mickey? Are you alright?"

Mickey looked up sharply and took a deep breath. When he saw Turkish blurring, he realized that his eyes were watering and he was filled with shame at such blatant weakness. He took another deep breath and nodded.

"Fine. I'm fine, Turkish."

"I wasn't born fuckin' yesterday, Mickey. Why don't you just tell me what's bothering you? Maybe . . . Maybe I can help or somethin'."

Mickey shook his head a little more enthusiastically than he'd intended. "Don't need yar help, Turkish. Don't need yar halp fer nuttin'. Understand? No halp. From ya."

"What's going on?" Turkish asked, his voice firm.

"Nuttin'."

"Mickey . . ."

"Nuttin', Turkish!" Mickey snapped. He took a deep breath, annunciating carefully. "Nothing. D'ya understand? _Nothing_."

Turkish pushed himself to his feet. He grabbed his keys and went over to the front door. "Do you see this door, Mickey? I had the lock replaced a few months ago. It was a really good lock that's supposed to be pick proof. And break proof. Best of the best. You have to use a key to unlock it from the inside. I'm . . . locking it now." He did. "And I'm not unlocking it until you tell me what's going on."

"Fuck, Turkish, when de fuck did ya turn inta such a ravin' fuckin' asshole?" Mickey snapped, shooting to his feet. "'S none o' yar damned fuckin' business what de fuck's goin' on in my goddamned life!"

Turkish said nothing, staring at Mickey and waiting for answers. Mickey swore a string of curses that he knew were barely intelligible, but he didn't care. They weren't for anyone but him. He sneered, pushing up his sleeves and clenching his fists, taking a step closer.

"If ya don't give 'em t' me, Turkish, I'll fuckin' take 'em from ya. An' _you_ of all people know exactly what t'e fuck that means."

Turkish took a step away. "All you have to do is tell me."

"I don't want t' tell ya! I don't want t' talk t' ya! I don't want t' have anyt'in' t' do wit' ya! Leave me the fuck alone, Turkish, and let me out o' yer damned flat!"

"Tell me. Tell me now. And then you can leave. Why haven't you gone home yet? Why are you here? Why aren't you surrounded by Pikeys in your nice little Pikey camp? I've never seen a Pikey on his own in my entire fucking life, Mickey, and now I've seen you alone for days! You, you, _you_ of all people is practically in tears. What's going on?"

"Why t'e fuck do ya care, Turkish?" Mickey demanded.

"Because I'm a human fucking being, Mickey!" Turkish snapped back. "I picked you up off the damned sidewalk because I'm a human being, I took you in after you got the shit beat from you because I'm a human being, I kept idiot Tommy out of your hair when he just wanted to get rid of you because I'm a human being and I'm asking what's wrong with you because I'm a human fucking being! So tell me, Mickey. Tell me. If I can help, I will, but you just have to tell me . . ."

Mickey staggered back a step, sucking in a deep breath and trying to get a hold of himself. Turkish's intensity had taken him by surprise and he could feel the sincerity of the words breaking back his defenses. He wanted to reach out to someone, wanted someone to tell him that everything was going to be ok, just like his ma used to.

That thought made it hard to breathe, his throat clenching tight. He sucked in another breath, desperately trying to calm down. He bit down hard on the inside of his lip to try to control himself, but it only made it worse. He was about to break open.

"Mickey . . ."

"I gat kick'd out!" Mickey snapped.

Turkish furrowed his brow, leaning in a little closer in disbelief. "What?"

Mickey paused, the instinctive hesitance as he waited for his friends to repeat his words, but they weren't here to help anymore. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down to repeat it.

"I gat kick'd out," he said again, more slowly this time. "Me an' . . t'e b'ys, we . . . had us a . . . differin' of opinions. T'ey asked me t' leave, an' . . . not t' come back. I did go back, t'ough. A week ago. But t'ey weren't t'ere. An', you know . . ."

"No use trying to find a Pikey . . . that doesn't want to be found," Turkish said softly.

"Ya. T'ain't no use lookin' fer 'em . . . Now I'm . . . like a boat wit'out sails. I ain't got no where to go."

Turkish narrowed his eyes, shaking his head slowly as he absorbed it. "What . . . How? What did you do? What did _they_ do? How did you . . . end up like this?"

Mickey bit his lip again. They were going to bleed if he kept this up, but he couldn't help it. It was just what he did when he was stressed. "'T'ain't important how. Won't be changin' me position any."

"How long ago?"

"Couple o' months back."

"Right after . . ."

"Ya, right after t'e fight. Right after we moved."

"Did it have anything to do with . . . ?"

"Naw. Nothin' t' do wit' ya and yar damned fight, Turkish. Just . . . me."

"Shit, Mickey. I'm sorry. What're you doing to stay alive?"

Mickey shrugged. "Whatever I have'ta."

"Do you have a place to live? A place to work? Anything?"

Mickey bit his lip and shook his head. Turkish sighed, running his hand over his face.

"Well . . . If you still fight, I got work for you. Until you've got the money to get your own place, you can stay in the caravan. Or here . . . Probably safer here, if you're alright with sleeping on a couch. You're obviously alright sleeping on a chair, so a couch would probably be an upgrade, I'd say."

"Ya'd want me t' fight fer ya, even after what happened?"

"The fighting's a little different since Brick Top's been replaced. You could make plenty of money, betting on yourself, plus your cut of the pay for doing the fight. It could work out for you, easy. Until you find something better, or get tired of it. Plenty of fighters retire after only a year or two, just on the money from betting on themselves, if their managers stack them right. What do you say, Mickey?"

"What about Tommy?" Mickey asked. "Ya said he didn't want me around."

"Don't you worry about the tit," Turkish said. "Besides, he'll look at you a lot different if you're bringing in more money for us. He can't spend it fast enough, the bleeding idiot."

"Alright, t'en," Mickey said with a nod. "I guess we got a deal, t'en. When do I start?"

"I got just the fight for you, coming up this Friday. The fighter scheduled is out after he decided to try to put his fist through a brick wall. There's big money for whoever can replace him and me and Tommy have been trying. It'll be a good fight for you. It isn't fixed."

Mickey grinned. "I ain't so good at takin' scheduled dives."

"No, definitely not. So we won't be putting you in anything you need to take dives for."

Mickey grinned again, giving Turkish the thumbs up. "So long as t'at's settled, t'en, I t'ink we'll do just fine."

* * *

"Now, you leave Tommy to me," Turkish said as he drove toward the abandoned building. "I'll tell him what we're doing. I'll handle 'im. He's a stupid git, but he can get a mite stubborn when something he doesn't like it happening. I'll handle 'im. Don't you worry."

"Not worryin'," Mickey said, leaning back and putting his feet up on the dash. "Not one bit." He grinned. "Ya see me not worrying'?"

Turkish glanced at him. "Good job at that. Now, don't take anything he says personally. He's . . . well, he's a stupid git."

"Turkish! I ain't worried none. Maybe ya should take a piece o' yar own advice and stop _yar_ worryin'."

Turkish furrowed his brow. "What?"

Mickey glanced over. "I said _stop worryin_'."

"Well, I'm not worried," Turkish said. "I'm just letting you know . . ." He glanced over, meeting Mickey's stare. "Alright, I'm trying not to worry. But fuck, he pisses the hell out of me when he gets his stupid little ideas in his mind."

"Aren't ya t'e boss?" Mickey asked with a grin. "Shouldn't he be listenin' to ya?"

"You go ahead and tell 'im that," Turkish muttered. "It would do me an incredibly large favor, especially if he took your word for it."

Mickey shook his head. "Sad, sad t'ing when yar employees don't know t'eir places, i'nn't it?"

"You shut up," Turkish muttered. He sent a quick glare at him. "You're just as bad as Tommy."

Mickey grinned again. It was another moment when he knew he should say something good like 'thank you' or 'I appreciate it', but once again, those words weren't coming. It was too late, now, he figured. They had arrived into the parking lot that served as the caravan's home. He didn't much want to talk about things like that in front of anyone but Turkish.

They climbed out of the car and walked over to the caravan, stepping inside. Tommy was there already, sitting at the kitchen table, playing solitaire. He looked up at them both, his brow furrowed as he looked between them both.

"What's this, then?" he asked.

"Mickey's going to fight for us, Tommy."

Tommy looked between them both again. "Well, alright, then. Nice to see a new fighter. We wanted him to fight for us back before, remember?"

Turkish blinked. Mickey grinned, lifting a hand to his mouth and biting his knuckle to keep himself from laughing. After all the stress he'd seen from Turkish it was almost too much for him to see Tommy agree so easily.

"Wh . . . What?" Turkish asked. "I thought . . ."

"Maybe ya shouldn't be questionin' it none, Turkish," Mickey said around his knuckle. "Maybe ya should jus' . . . roll with it. Ya know?"

"Right," Turkish said, shaking his head. "Well . . . Are you wearing a tie again?"

Tommy looked down at his chest. "What's your damned fixation with ties? Especially the ones I wear. What's wrong with me wearing a tie? Maybe I just want to look a little nicer."

Turkish was staring at Tommy. Mickey fought against the laughter, reaching out and grabbing Turkish's arm.

"Maybe ya should be tellin' me 'bout t'is fight ya want me fer."

Tommy furrowed his brow. "What'd he say?"

"The fight," Turkish said, sinking into one of the seats. "He wants to know about the fight. Have a seat, Mickey. We'll talk."

Mickey sank into the padded bench beside Turkish, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. He could feel Turkish against him, feel their thighs pressing together. He could feel the warmth of Turkish's body, even through his clothes. It was more than a little distracting. He once again found himself chewing on the inside of his lip as he tried not to focus on what Turkish felt like beside him. It was this kind of shit that got him in trouble in the first place. He started spinning one of the rings on his fingers, making slow revolutions with the band of gold as he tried not to pay attention to Turkish's body.

"Mickey, have you been listening to a word I said?" Turkish asked.

Mickey looked up, startled. He hadn't even realized that Turkish was talking. He was tempted, at first, to lie, but if Turkish asked him to repeat anything, he was damned well screwed. He smacked his lips, then looked back and forth between Turkish and Tommy, feeling their eyes on him. He grinned.

"Sorry, Turkish. Was distracted by Tommy's tie. 'S so bright an' colorful, so pretty an' shiny. Couldn't help meself none. Distractin'."

Tommy raised an eyebrow and leaned a little closer. "What was that about my tie?"

Mickey grinned and looked at Turkish. Turkish was halfway between amused at the joke and irritated that he had to repeat himself. Mickey reached out, patting Turkish's cheek.

"Cheer up, Turkish. I'll be listenin' t'is time, I promise. Jus' won't look at t'e tie an' I'll be fine."

"Why does everyone always seem to have something to say about my tie?" Tommy muttered.

"Maybe because it's so bloody unusual for you to give half an ant's thought about what you look like, Tommy," Turkish muttered. "It's taken us all by surprise and we don't know what to do with it."

Mickey narrowed his eyes, leaning across the table. "Is t'ere a girl, Tommy? Is she pretty? Did she at least give ya a kiss while she stole yar balls?"

"A girl?" Turkish mused. "I never would've thought of that. Well, fuck, that explains a lot, doesn't it? _Is_ there a girl?"

Tommy turned bright red. "No! I don't know what you're talking about. Either of you. Especially you!" he pointed at Mickey. "Can't understand a damned thing you're saying! And it's certainly none of _your_ business what's going on in my life. I hardly know you!"

Turkish and Mickey exchanged a glance that spoke volumes about what they thought of Tommy's denial. Mickey burst out laughing, leaning back against the bench and holding his gut as he laughed and laughed. Tommy's shade of red deepened to a vivid scarlet and he shrank a little, as if he was hoping to crawl under the table and hide until everyone forgot about the conversation. Turkish was shaking his head, but smiling slightly. He almost looked relieved that everyone's attention was on Tommy, as if there was something about himself that people would find out if they talked about him too long, just like they found out about Tommy's girl by talking about his tie.

"Well, fuck, Tommy, good for you, I say. Anyway, the fight. I should tell you about it before we get distracted anymore."

"Right," Mickey said, forcing himself to calm down. "T'e fight." He took a deep breath. "I promise I won't be lookin' at t'e tie, Turkish. I'll listen t'is time."

Turkish nodded. "Like I said, it's this Friday. There's good money in the fight, just for signing on. Since the fighter's been replaced, there isn't any money to be made from the bookies, but plenty will be betting at the fight. Even though you've slaughtered two opponents, there's probably going to be odds against you. The guy is a champion. Hasn't been defeated in twenty consecutive fights. He's big, he's tough, and he's one dir'y fucker. A couple week ago, he went up against someone like you, someone who can knock a guy out with one punch. Well, he took that punch and he just kept coming. The poor fuck was so shocked that his punch didn't work that he didn't know what else to do. He was pummeled. He's tough, but I think you can still take him. It's an honest fight. Hasn't been fixed. Won't be fixed. Tommy and I have a little more clout after you and your friends toasted Brick Top. Rumor has it that we were involved with the whole scheme and, well, we haven't put any effort into denying those rumors none. Brick Top's replacement likes us more than just a little, since he figures it's thanks to us that he had the opportunity to be Brick Top's replacement. And when someone as big as that likes you more than just a little, you're in a good place in life. So the fight won't be fixed. For this fight, it's best that you do everything you can to win. The odds will give you a good pay off. But this is something to think about, Mickey, so listen close. It'll do you good to loose once in a while. No one's gonna bet against you if no one thinks you can be beaten. And if no one's betting against you, there's no money to be made. But if you win this fight, it'll be easy for us to get you up against the big guys, so do win. For now. But just think about it."

Mickey nodded. "Right. So, what should I be doin' 'til Friday, t'en?"

"Whatever it is you need to do to keep yourself in good shape for a fight," Turkish said. "I don't give a shit what that is, so long as you're in good shape come Friday."

"Turkish, are you sure he's ready for a fight?" Tommy said. "I mean, the only reason he's here now is because of the beating he took, and that was only a few days ago. No offense, Mickey, really, but . . . Are you sure?"

"I'm ready," Mickey said, a little more firmly than he'd intended. "Don't none o' yas worry. I'm damned ready fer a fight."

* * *

That's it for now, folks. Like I said, this may be the last fr a while, but i'll try to get chapter five up. And I'll be renaming the fic _Breaking Point_. The current title is just to . . . uck. Angsty? Fluffy? Doesn't suit what I have planned.

Love ya lots. All of yas.

-Tashue


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

The room was spinning. But not really in that bad way that it spun when Mickey was _too_ drunk. It was spinning in the gentle way that it spun when he had just enough, when the buzz he got was just right, when any more booze would tip over the edge into a bad, bad place, a bad kind of drunk. The balance was delicate, but he'd found it.

He leaned against the wall. There was a cigarette between his lips, dangling there, leaking smoke up into his face. The glass of beer was in is hand, clutched loosely. He was thirsty for more, but he didn't dare drink from it. The balance was too perfect and any more sips would disrupt it. The last thing he wanted on a night like this was to tip that balance and be sick-drunk.

His shirt was open, sweat cooling on his flesh. To cram so many bodies in such a small space made the air thick with heat and humidity. But the heat was bearable. The sweat on bodies made each body stand out more, made the place gleam with sexual energy that was totally and completely infectious.

Someone came closer, feeling the energy that came from even the relatively innate Pikey. Mickey looked up, let their eyes meet. There was a long, slow moment while they upraised each other, then they came to a moment where they approved of each other.

Mickey licked his lips. The other person moved closer. Mickey took a deep breath, feeling the good-drunk being blunted by time. He lifted is glass and drained the last of it, feeling his heart pound fast and hard in his chest. The night had come to its moment of purpose. He'd come here, tonight, for just this moment and all that followed it. He'd come here for this. To meet another man and fuck.

The man was taller than Mickey by a few inches, his body just a little wider than Mickey's. His shirt was open, too, showing the fine muscles of his torso. He'd do. He had hazel eyes. For a moment, he was thinking about the wrong set of hazel eyes. The set of hazel eyes he thought of matched with a rapidly receding hairline and the owner of these eyes had a full head of black hair. He couldn't think of _those_ hazel eyes, not tonight, God, not tonight.

The man came to Mickey's side, leaning against the wall. He was close, so close that Mickey could feel his body brushing against his forearm, feel his hot, beer-soaked breath tickling the side of his face. He turned to the man a little, just enough to be able to look up at his face. The conversation was brief. Concise.

"Yours or mine?" the man asked.

"Yars," Mickey breathed.

The man nodded. He motioned for Mickey to follow, pushing himself away from the wall and walking toward the door. Mickey followed, resting his glass on the first table top he came within reach of and grabbing his coat from the front hall. His heart was beating faster, now, his legs heavy and slow, but he made his way out on the man's heels. They wouldn't exchange anything but passion and fluids, not tonight, not after meeting the way they did. Mickey would probably never see him again, but that didn't matter for now. All that mattered was scratching the itch he'd been ignoring for so damned long. He couldn't ignore it anymore. More than that, he needed to reclaim himself, reclaim his sexuality and dignity. He needed to move on from what had happened, needed it so desperately. There was a thought flitting in his mind that it was too soon to do that kind of reclaiming, but he pushed it away. He needed this. And on the night before his fight, it seemed like a fitting moment to spoil himself a little.

They climbed into the man's car. The ride back was silent. The only interaction was Mickey placing his hand squarely in the man's lap, coaxing out an erection. The man only glanced at him and grinned. Mickey grinned back.

The car was moving fast, faster than it should be, and that only made Mickey's heart beat all the faster. But it was good. They were going to get there soon and that was good. The faster they could get to business, the better.

They stopped at his flat and got out. There weren't any words as they climbed the stairs, weren't any words as they kicked off their shoes and discarded their coats. There weren't any words as they collided, their mouths hot against each other, their bodies firm and slick with sweat. Their hands roamed each other, slid through each others hair, felt each other's hips and backs and chests and stomachs, drinking in each other's flesh with their palms. Clothes were falling fast. They collapsed onto the first soft surface they could find and they wasted away the hours of the night enjoying each other. And all the while, Mickey struggled not to think about the other pair of hazel eyes.

* * *

At a quarter after five in the morning, Mickey slid back into Turkish's flat, gently closing and locking the door behind him. Still unsteady on his feet from the drinks he'd had at the pub and the drinks he'd had at the guy's house, he hung his keys on the hook and kicked off his shoes, tiptoeing as best he could to the couch where he slept. There was a light on in the kitchen, but he paid no attention to it. Turkish got up in the middle of the night all the time and left lights on behind him.

"Mary, mother of God, where the _hell_ have you been?"

Mickey jumped, his heart skipping a beat and his skin going tingly. He spun on his heel to see Turkish standing at his counter, a glass of water in his hand. He was bare-chested, bottom half clad in thin black pajamas. Mickey looked down at the floor so he wouldn't find himself looking at the relatively well proportioned body in front of him.

"Sweet fuckin' Jesus, Turkish, ya scared t'e livin' shit out o' me."

"Well, good," Turkish growled. "I'm glad I scared the living shit out of you. Because I've been sitting around, trying to sleep, worrying about you like some idiot mother hen because you never came home. I don't like staying up all night worrying, Mickey. It's not good for my blood pressure. So where the hell were you on the night before a very big and very important fight?"

"'S none o' yer fuckin' business, Turkish," Mickey muttered, slumping down on the couch.

Turkish huffed, resting the cup in the sink. "Fine. None of my business. But I feel the need to remind you that you promised not to cause me any grief when I agreed to let you fight for me, Mickey. And staying out all night before a fight causes me grief. And so would not showing up for the fight. We're but dealing with Brick Top anymore, but we're still dealing with men who don't like to be jerked around and I have no intentions of jerking anyone around. But if you don't show or if something happens that means you can't fight, I, as your promoter, look bad. I look like I'm jerking people around. Don't make me look bad, Mickey!"

Mickey sighed, spreading his hands. "Fuck, Turkish, what'd'ya want? I'm here, ain' I? Fuck, I'm gonna fight tamorraw, ain' I? I'm not gonna make ya look bad because I'm gonna be t'ere an' I'm gonna fight. So where's t'e problem?"

"Just don't fuck me, Mickey. Don't."

Mickey grinned. "Ya might want t' rephrase t'at. Puts all kinds o' dirty little images in my head."

Turkish gaped, frozen by Mickey's comment. His brain had stopped working, leaving his jaw hanging slack like an idiot. He blinked. He stared at Mickey. He blinked again.

Mickey furrowed his brow and glanced around himself. He looked back up at Turkish. "What?"

Turkish cleared his throat, shaking his head. "N-nothing. Never mind. Just, caught me by surprise, is all. I . . . wasn't expecting that . . . at all."

"What, me picturin' ya naked?" Mickey asked. "'S yer fault. Yer t'e one who said it, not me."

"Why . . . are we talkin' about this?"

Mickey shrugged, laying down on the couch and folding his hands beneath his head. "Blame t'e drinks I had. Makes me think about naked men. 'Specially after I've spent hours seein' one."

Turkish felt himself freeze again. He played the words over in his head again and again, trying to find a meaning other than the one that seemed obvious to him. But there didn't seem to be any other explanations. Maybe it was only because of the way he was, the memories he had, the thoughts that flitted through his mind. Or maybe Mickey actually meant what Turkish thought he meant and the drinks he'd had were loosening his tongue.

"Fuck," Mickey suddenly whined.

Turkish looked up. "What?"

"I jus' said all o' t'at out loud, didn't I?"

Turkish cleared his throat. "Yes, Mickey, you sure as fuck said all of that out loud."

"Fuck."

"Don't worry about it," Turkish said softly, feeling his mouth dry out and feeling his heart starting to pound fast. He took a deep breath and forced his voice to sound as calm as he wanted it to, about a thousand times calmer than he actually was. Mickey was gay. Mickey liked men. It made his brain work a million miles a second and he tried desperately to drag it all to a halt. "It doesn't bother me any."

Mickey groaned, twisting around on the couch so he could see Turkish's face. Turkish looked at the floor, licking his lips slowly. Mickey groaned again.

"Ya can't e'en look at me now. Fuck me and my big fuckin' mouth. I'm gonna stop drinkin'. Totally. Completely. Stop. Drinkin'. It only gets me into trouble."

"There's no trouble, Mickey," Turkish said. "Trust me, there's no trouble."

Mickey rolled to his side and sat up, pushing himself to his feet. He swayed and almost fell back down, then caught himself, caught his balance. He cleared his throat, pushing his hand through his hair.

"I t'ink I'm gonna . . . go," Mickey said. "Jus' fer a while. Jus' fer a couple days."

"No, Mickey," Turkish said, taking a few steps closer to the Pikey. "You're not in any state to go anywhere. There's no need, anyway. Just lay back down and don't think about it. We both need sleep and I'll do my very best to forget what you said, if that helps. I'm sure you'll forget."

Turkish closed the distance between them and took Mickey by the arm, gently guiding him back to the couch and sitting him down. He slumped heavily, sighing and running his hands over his face.

"T'is is how I got myself kicked out o' the camp site," Mickey said softly.

Turkish furrowed his brow. "What?"

Mickey glared.

"No, I heard you," Turkish said, waving a hand. "But I mean . . . what do you mean?"

Mickey sighed again. "If ya're squeamish, Turkish, ya don't want t' hear t'is. If ya've got any respect fer me left 't all, I don't want ya t' hear it."

"I think I want to hear it," Turkish said slowly.

Mickey sighed, shaking his head. "I can't."

"Should I start, then?" Turkish asked. "I mean, would it make it easier if you knew about me?"

Mickey furrowed his brow, looking up at Turkish. "What'r'ya talkin' about, Turkish?"

"I grew up in Liverpool," Turkish started. "Lived there for . . . twenty-five years, almost. But it was in high school when I realized that I was . . . different. All of the other guys were thinking about tits and I wasn't. I met someone - a man - and he made me realize . . . what I wanted. And it wasn't tits." Turkish shrugged. "I was scared. And ashamed. I knew my friends wouldn't understand. My family wouldn't understand. So I kept it hidden. Out of high school, I met this girl. She had a same problem. Well, except that she was the one who wanted tits. Other women's tits. I know what I mean and I'm pretty sure you do, too."

Mickey nodded, but his brow was furrowed as he listened.

"We agreed to help each other. To keep each other's secret. We pretended that we were dating. I brought her home to meet my family, she brought me home to meet hers. Except I had boyfriends. And she had girlfriends. I got sick. Nothing serious, just a flu. The boyfriend I had at the time was there to help take care of me. As I was starting to feel better, my brother came over to my flat and found me and my boyfriend. Naked. Together. He freaked. Told everyone he knew. My mum took it well, I guess, my dad damned near had a stroke. But my brother . . . he couldn't take it. Not one bit. Soon, everyone knew. I couldn't walk down the street without being called a fag, without . . . Everyone knew. Then, one night, I was walking home. A group of guys jumped me. Six of them, I think. They had this strange idea that beating the shit out of me would make their own little lives more secure, like I was some kind of threat. Fuckers. What's worse is they thought that a beating wasn't enough. They had to . . . humiliate me. Totally and completely. I was in the hospital for weeks. But I've never really . . . Scars on the outside aren't the worst ones, you know? Anyway . . ." He swallowed hard, closing his eyes for a moment as he struggled against those old memories. It had been a long, long time since he'd talked about this and he wasn't so sure he was ready to talk about it, now. He took a long, deep breath. "When I got out, I left. Came here to London. Can't say why I picked London, just picked it at random, I guess. And when I got here, I swore to myself that I would never, ever be in that position again. Never. I'd die first. So I . . ." He sighed. "I tried to . . . kill . . . that part of myself. I ignored it. At least, I did the best I could to ignore it. Every now and then, I got an itch that I couldn't help but scratch. Still do. But I don't . . . do boyfriends anymore. I can't. I can't end up in the hospital again because of this. So that's my story. Your turn."

"Turkish . . ."

Turkish shook his head, holding out his hands. "I don't want that. I didn't tell you so you'd do . . . that. I just told you so that you'd know that . . . I won't judge. So. Your turn."

Mickey took a deep breath. "It's nothing like that . . ."

Turkish shrugged. "Doesn't matter if it's anything like mine. You have a story to tell. So go ahead."

Mickey ran his hands over his face, shaking his head. His mind was spinning around in strange circles, trying to absorb what Turkish had just told him. Of all the gay men he'd met in the world, he should be able to tell who was and who wasn't. But he had never pegged Turkish for one of the ones 'batting for the other team'. He licked his lips, trying to pull his mind back on track. It was too distracting to think of Turkish as gay. But then, he didn't want to think about his traumatic story.

Turkish sighed. "Mickey . . ."

Mickey shook his head. "Turkish, I don't want to . . ."

Turkish reached down, resting a hand on Mickey's knee. "Alright, then. You don't have to tell me."

Mickey nodded. "Thank ya."

Turkish sighed again. "I need sleep, Mickey. Desperately. If you change your mind, I'll listen. But if not, well . . . I'm not going to force you."

He pushed himself to his feet, yawning and stretching. Mickey looked up at him, his brow still furrowed. He was still struggling to absorb Turkish's story. The pleasure of the night was sinking away. Not that it had been that good. His own thoughts had interfered too much. Every time he looked into hazel eyes, he saw Turkish. Every time he ran his hands through thick hair, he imagined a slowly progressing pattern of baldness. He wanted Turkish. And he couldn't settle for anyone else.

Turkish walked away to his room, but he left the door open a crack. Mickey sighed, pushing himself to his feet. He needed a drink.

He found Turkish's liquor cabinet and scanned it. There was a big bottle of rum still untouched, sitting beside the half-empty bottle of whiskey. There were a few other things, liqueurs intended for sweet party drinks, a few bottles of things Mickey knew better than to touch with a ten-foot-pole - tequila never sat well with him, neither did vodka. Rum didn't either, really. He grabbed the bottle of whiskey and sank back into the couch. And he drank.

And Turkish's words echoed in his head. Turkish was gay, too. That was a good thing, wasn't it? If Turkish wanted men the way Mickey did, didn't that mean there was a chance? So why was he sitting here, drinking away his desire in the hopes of dreaming dreams that included him and Turkish and a beautiful lack of clothes?

But why, he asked himself, was it such a big deal? He'd been attracted to men before. He'd even thought he knew what love was a time or two before. He'd been through it before. So why was this such a big deal? Was it because he had thought that Turkish was straight? He had, after all. He'd laid eyes on Turkish the first time and his skin tingled with the first signs of attraction, but he buried it away deep and tried to forget about it because his instincts warned him that there was no chance, this one was straight. But the desire didn't go away. Maybe it was the dilemma of wanting something he couldn't have. Plenty of people went through _that_ self-torturous stupidity. Maybe that was why the desire got stronger every time he saw Turkish. Maybe that was why the desire seemed to double in his chest with every passing moment since Turkish found him in the alley. Or maybe it was the fact that Turkish had, essentially, saved him. Maybe he wasn't dying, but Turkish had picked him up from the pavement and brought him somewhere safe. And when Mickey told Turkish that he had no where to go, Turkish offered him his home and a way to make money so he could survive and, one day, become independent. Maybe that was why.

He took a long drink straight from the bottle, wincing as it burned his way down his throat. He still felt the warmth on his leg from where Turkish had touched him, however fleeting and chaste the contact had been. And once again, the thought crossed his mind that if Turkish liked men, too, what the hell was Mickey doing sitting on his couch and drinking his whiskey when he was in the next room? What was holding him back?

Rejection. That was it, maybe. If Turkish wanted him, he would have made a move by now, wouldn't he? And if he hadn't made a move, maybe that meant that he wasn't interested. And Mickey hated being turned down. It made him twist inside, made his pride ache and throb and burn like a thumb when it got smacked by accident with a hammer. He couldn't stand rejection. Someone like him didn't have to stand for rejection, either. He could just stand around at a pub and wait for someone to notice him, and nine times out of ten, it worked like a charm. He could even afford to be picky, turning down the ones that weren't good enough. He could reject if he wanted. But he couldn't be in a position to be rejected. And Turkish had just said that he liked men, but he'd been spending his years in London doing his best to shut that part of him off. Hadn't he? So if he didn't want to be that person anymore, if he only sought men when he couldn't take the longing anymore, what the hell made Mickey think he even had a shot?

"Fuck," he muttered into the bottle as he took another long, long swallow. "Fuck."

It summed up his situation rather well, he thought. Not necessarily eloquent, but, well . . . He wanted to be fucked. He was fucked, he figured, and not in the good way. What had been a simple matter hours ago - he wanted Turkish but wasn't going to try because he figured Turkish was straight - had suddenly turned into something terribly complicated. So . . .

"Fuck."

He took another swallow and leaned back, resting against the arm of the couch so he was propped up enough to drink. He stared up at the ceiling, lit by the dim light in the kitchen and the lamplight outside. The sun would start to rise, soon, would begin its slow dance up the horizon. And tonight, he had to fight. Thank God. Nothing like pounding on soft, yielding human flesh with his fists to release a little tension.

"Fuck."

What was it about Turkish, exactly, he wondered? He was alright looking. But Mickey had been with better. Mickey was better, he figured, at least in the eyes of society. He was younger and more fit, his face a little nicer to look at, his body one carefully sculpted by a hard life in the ring. But Turkish had something. Not charm. Definitely not charm. He was too hard and gritty and too I-don't-give-a-fuck-what-you-think to have charm. Sure, he was protecting himself by pretending - with stunning convincingness - to be straight. And sure, he worked in a world where he had to answer to people with more power, stepped carefully in that world so he wouldn't get into trouble, but he didn't do it because he cared what people thought. He did it to stay alive. In a sink-or-swim lifestyle, he did it to keep his head above water. If he could live the way he wanted and keep his skin, he'd do it. Mickey knew that instinctively about him, even if his instincts had been off about his sexuality. And he lived life however it came to him. He did what he had to and he accepted the consequences. Mickey had seen Turkish in a bad time. A Brick Top inspired bad time. And he'd made his way through it with surprising grace. Few people could attest to that. The fact that Mickey and his group cleaned up Brick Top didn't take the value away from Turkish's actions, Mickey figured, since Turkish had no idea what the Pickeys were planning to do that night. And he had those damned intense hazel eyes that lingered in Mickey's thoughts.

Mickey took another drink and wondered to himself if it was just a passing infatuation. Because Turkish saved him and helped him and because he thought Turkish was something he'd never be able to have, it made the desire stronger. And maybe, if he just fucked, he'd get it out of his system and move on. If he had Turkish, he would loose interest. It sounded like a good scenario. He could go back to fucking other guys and not have Turkish plaguing his thoughts and ruining what should be perfectly good fucks. Maybe Turkish wanted to scratch his itch, too. Maybe . . .

"Fuck it."

He took another drink of whiskey and sat up. He was dizzy almost immediately. When he thought he was in control again, he stood up and was dizzy again. The blood drained away from his head so suddenly and so completely that for a few seconds, he couldn't even see. He just stood there for a moments, his arms out for balance and to catch himself in case he fell and his body weaving ever so slightly as he tried to find his center. When that had passed, he set the bottle of Scotch down on the coffee table and made his way to Turkish's room. It was a big effort, a struggle, to put one foot in front of the other, but he managed. He didn't knock, just pushed the door open and listened to it creak on its hinges.

Turkish was actually asleep, making Mickey wonder how long he'd been sitting on the couch, drinking whiskey. He slept on his stomach, his blanket tangled around his legs, his arms tucked under his pillow and his head turned to one side. He didn't snore, just breathed deep and slow, the inhale longer than the exhale with a long moment of stillness in between. His cheeks were rough with stubble and what hair he had was looking in need of a trim. The hazel eyes were closed, but he didn't loose any of his power, his attraction. His back was smooth, lines of muscle hinting that his hidden chest was something decent to look at. He had just a little bit of hair on the small of his back, thin, dark wisps that could be mistaken for shadow from a distance. With his face relaxed in sleep, Mickey could see the frown lines that were developing on his forehead and in the corners of his eyes. Mickey wondered idly how old he was, knowing that premature baldness could make a man look older. And he wondered how long Turkish had been in London. Couldn't have been that long, surely, if he'd been in Liverpool until he was twenty five.

"What're ya doin'?" Mickey muttered to himself. "Jus' go."

He took a step in. Moving again made him unsteady again and he paused. He took another step. Paused. Damn, he'd drank too much. He wasn't feeling well. But he wanted this. He wanted it because he wanted it and he wanted it because he wanted to get it out of his system so he could have sex without thinking about Turkish. Another step. A pause. One last step and he was at the bed. He sank down at the edge, sitting beside Turkish, right by his ribs and close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from Turkish's skin. Turkish shifted, the weight on the bed enough to disturb him just a little. Mickey sat there for a long moment, looking down at Turkish. His stomach was gurgling at him, letting him know how outraged it was that he'd poured so much booze into it over the last eight long hours.

Turkish gave a small groan, shifting and turning his head to face away from Mickey, toward the window. Mickey reached out with a slow, shaky hand, his fingers sliding slowly across Turkish's back. His skin was warm and soft. Goosebumps raised along his flesh. Mickey leaned down a little, trailing kisses along the center of Turkish's back. It felt good. His skin was smooth, flawless, so warm. He was one of those people who just generate heat, as if his purpose in the world was to warm others.

Turkish murmured in his sleep. Mickey felt his heart skip a beat, his eyes fluttering closed. He slid both hands along Turkish's back, shifting on the bed so he could lay on his stomach, too, stretching out alongside Turkish and planting kisses along his body. Turkish groaned and lifted his head enough to look at Mickey, looking at him through bleary, half-open eyes. His brow was furrowed as he looked at Mickey, his brain trying to process what was going on. Mickey gave a half smile, feeling his heart thumping so hard in his chest that Turkish must have felt it, too. Turkish said nothing for a long time, just staring and Mickey stared back. Mickey was usualy so damned good at making these kinds of advances, at bridging these kinds of gaps, but somehow, as he found himself looking into those hazel eyes, all he could do was lie there and wait for Turkish's judgment.

Then Turkish leaned in, his mouth catching Mickey's, sending Mickey's senses sprawling. He groaned against Turkish's mouth as Turkish shifted enough to wrap an arm around Mickey's body, dragging him even closer. Turkish was breathing hard, his chest pressing against Mickey, his breath coming out in hot gasps through his nose as their kiss deepened, as Mickey opened his mouth and accepted Turkish's tongue. Mickey shifted, too, sliding his hands across Turkish's cheeks, feeling the hard, prickly stubble beneath his fingers.

The world was spinning fast, now, spinning wildly out of control. Mickey could barely keep track of each passing moment as he felt Turkish's body pressing hard against him, felt Turkish's desire as their kiss continued. When Mickey broke the kiss to catch his breath, Turkish's mouth wandered, brushing over Mickey's cheeks were his own stubble had grown, then down under his jaw line to the soft skin of his neck. Mickey knew that his pulse was pounding against Turkish's lip, knew by the way his head spun and his ears roared with his own heartbeat that Turkish had to be able to feel it. Then Turkish was shifting again, pulling back and prying Mickey's jacket off. Mickey sat up and the world lurched out from beneath him, making him feel like he was falling, darkness flashing in front of his eyes as the half-lit world of Turkish's bedroom blurred remorselessly out of focus. He was so drunk, too drunk for this, but now that he got it started, he sure as two shits didn't want it to stop.

He realized that his arms were stretched up into the air and Turkish was peeling his shirt off. His chest was naked, his shirt falling into a heap on the floor, and Turkish leaned in for another kiss, wrapping his arms around Mickey's body as he lay him back down. Turkish was laying on top of him, now, on his knees between Mickey's legs, their chests crushed together. He felt Turkish's hard cock pushing at him through his thin pajamas, begging for the kind of attention that Turkish's lips were getting. He squirmed against Turkish's body, trying to rub himself on that cock, eliciting a small groan from Turkish's throat. Turkish was moving his hips ever so slightly, the instinct and desire taking over.

Mickey's stomach was gurgling again, still, telling him that all was not quite right. It was warning him that this joyous experience was about to come screeching to a messy halt.

He broke the kiss sucking in a deep breath and trying to calm his stomach down, squeezing his eyes shut. Oh God, he didn't feel good. But desire had Turkish too strongly for Turkish to take it as anything more than an attempt to get some air. He swooped in for another kiss. Mickey groaned, putting his hands on Turkish's chest. He tried to push Turkish away, but didn't try hard enough for Turkish to get the point. Damn, those lips felt so good, good enough that he almost forgot how miserable his stomach felt.

Almost . . .

He broke the kiss again, turning his head away so Turkish couldn't capture him again. But Turkish still didn't see the problem. He trailed kisses along Mickey's neck and throat.

"Turkish . . ." Mickey trailed off, feeling his stomach clench as it threatened to rebel once and for all.

Turkish grunted in response but didn't let go.

"Turkish, I t'ink I'm gonna . . ."

And it was coming now, coming with a vengeance. He shoved Turkish hard and rolled over, scrambling to his feet. He was gagging already, but he bolted. He made it to the washroom, thank god. And all the Scotch came right back up.

* * *

-Tashue


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Right, so I'm a terrible person. Buzzing in and out of yours lives with random, unpredictable and non-dependable updates and chapters. I'm sorry. And that's not sarcasm. But here I am, again. Another swing. The writing bug is a strong one, but my muse is fickle. I make no promises this time around, except that I'll make a damned good go at finishing it before I mysteriously disappear again. I'm gearing myself up for a story that will involve a lot of research and I don't have access to the info I need just yet, which means I've got time to kill. Which is good news for you. Because it means I'll be working on Mickey and Turkish. Yay!

**Chapter Six**

Fight night. The place was overrun with human bodies, all crammed together, sweating on each other, breathing down each other's necks and spilling beer in each other's laps. People yelled. People fought. People laughed. It all stank of sweat and blood and booze.

And money. If money had a smell, this place reeked of it. It was changing hands so fast that few knew exactly how much they stood to lose or gain. And the fighters hadn't even hit the ring yet.

Mickey was ready.

At least, that was what he kept telling himself.

A very large part of him wasn't really _that_ ready because a very large part of himself wasn't entirely sure what had happened the night before. Every time he looked at Turkish, he had a flash of a memory, invasive and intense, searing through his brain like hot coals. Turkish's mouth. Turkish's chest. Turkish's hands. But it was always fleeting, a flash of lightning in his thoughts. He couldn't know for sure if it was something that had actually happened or if it was an aftertaste of a damned good dream. It wouldn't be the first time he had a dream like that.

Because of it, the entire day had passed in an awkward stage where a very serious conversation was always on the tip of Mickey's tongue. He wanted to know if it was a dream or a reality that was nagging at his fantasies. But he didn't want to broach that subject. If something had happened, well . . . it was damned embarrassing that he couldn't remember it, and wouldn't Turkish say something about it if it had? And if something _hadn't_ happened, that was even worse. Asking whether or not anything had happened would only make Turkish look at him in that funny way that so perfectly stated that Turkish didn't think Mickey had all his crayons accounted for.

Fight night. It was a joyous thing, whether he was ready or not. Because now that fight night was here, he could beat the piss out of someone and take his mind off his troubles. He could stop thinking about the socially incorrect way he thought about men. He could stop thinking about the home and the people that he missed so desperately. He could stop thinking about Turkish and his roaming hands. He could just generally stop thinking.

"I don't think he's listening, Turkish."

Mickey looked at Tommy. Fuckin' git ratted him out. Standing in the corner, looking smug. He sensed the awkward tension in the day and he seemed to thrive on contributing to it.

An irritated twitch in the corner of Turkish's eye. "Sure he is. Aren't ya, Mickey?"

Mickey looked at Turkish. His eyes were glittering in a way that made Mickey think it was Turkish who belonged in the ring. Again, the idea of lying occurred to him, but he didn't think it was in his best interest. Pissed off as Turkish would be when Mickey admitted he was wrong, he would be furious if he had to pry it out of Mickey. Rather than opening his mouth to speak, though, Mickey shook his head slowly. The eye twitched again.

"I was sayin' that you need to keep your guard high, _Mickey_," Turkish said slowly, his teeth clenched as if he'd burst into a long string of curses if he didn't keep his mouth under strict control. "Fat Albert likes to go for the eyes."

"It's time to go, Turkish," Tommy sighed.

"Fuck me backwards," Turkish muttered, straightening up and smoothing out his clothes. "Let's go, Mickey."

Mickey pushed himself to his feet and followed Turkish out of the back room. As soon as he opened the door, the wall of noise hit Mickey hard, trying to rob him of his focus. The chaos of an underground fight was both addictive and terrifying. It was struggling to take him over completely.

"Stay away from his chest," Turkish was saying, his voice getting louder and louder with every step they took. "There's too much padding there. It's a waste of effort. Go for the head, Mickey, the head."

Another door opened and they were in the middle of it all, now. It hit him so hard that it made him dizzy, just for a second. And he remembered why he got into this grim business in the first place. The fight was half the fun, and a tainted fun it was. The real pleasure was in the crowd. They screamed and cheered and booed and begged. All of their energy was focused on two men, the two fighters standing in the middle. All that energy poured over two human beings. It was better than drugs.

They walked through the press of bodies. Turkish was talking, but damned if Mickey was listening. He couldn't focus if he wanted to. His eyes were on the ring, his stage. This was what men did when they couldn't be rockstars. The ring defined life. One part chance, one part skill, a sprinkle of intuition and a fuck load of testosterone. Mix thoroughly. Bake at high temperatures.

Tommy and Turkish took their places, holding open the ropes. Mickey stepped into the ring, ducking low to get in, then standing up as tall as his body could stretch, bringing his shoulders back, making his chest stand out. He was ready.

Fat Albert stepped in the other side. He was taller than Mickey by about two inches. His features were broad and flat, made for fighting. No sharp bone structure meant less chances of cuts and bleeding. But Mickey didn't have to make him bleed to take him down. But when Mickey heard the man's name, he'd pictured someone slightly . . . rounder.

"Fuck me, Turkish," he muttered as he turned to Turkish. "T'e fucker ain't got an ounce o' fat on 'im."

"I know," Turkish said, taking Mickey's hat. "I told you. The name's meant to be ironic."

Mickey shrugged out of his jacket and handed it over. Turkish motioned for Mickey to come back and he leaned in.

"Try to let it last as long as you can," he said, his breath hot and moist along the side of Mickey's neck. "The more it looks like you're losing, the more money you make when you win. Remember. Guard high, punch high. Now, go!"

Mickey turned and the referee waved him over. The little bald man in the center of the ring checked the bindings on Mickey's hands, slid his palm over Mickey's chest, back, legs. Satisfied Mickey carried nothing that would enable him to cheat, he moved over to Fat Albert as Tommy and Turkish took up their place in Mickey's corner. Turkish looked markedly distressed, his brow knotted and his mouth in a tight, grim line. There was some kind of fear in him, though why, Mickey wasn't quite sure. It wasn't like before, when Mickey was expected to perform a certain way. The only thing riding on the fight was cash, and from the sound of it, he had plenty of that laying around these days.

"Let's have a clean fight, boys. No kicking, biting, gouging, you know. Behave!"

Mickey wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His heart was pounding fast. He was ready.

The bell rang and the referee stepped back. Fat Albert lumbered closer, his hands in front of his face. He was too tense in the shoulders, Mickey could see. His punches would be slow. But his stance was right to make each one hit like a jackhammer.

Fat Albert swung first, but Mickey kept his arms high and dodged out of the way. The punch grazed off Mickey's forearm. Another punch hit Mickey in the gut, hitting him with all the force of a wrecking ball and sending the air exploding from his lungs. He buckled a little, bending in the middle around the fist, but he kept his arms high, remembering what Turkish said. Another blow caught Mickey in the ear, spinning him right off his feet.

He hit the mat hard, but rolled with the impact. He didn't get up right away, his head feeling thick as his ear throbbed. The referee was counting, but Mickey was on his feet before the count of four. And the crowd got a little louder.

But now Mickey knew what Fat Albert's fists felt like. And he knew how to handle it.

The next punch came, but Mickey was already out of the way. And he was making a swing on his own. His fist found his way through the opening in Fat Albert's guard, hitting him on the cheekbone. A little grunt was all Mickey got in return and Fat Albert's big, meaty hand came barreling toward him. He couldn't get out of the way fast enough, moved with it, letting it roll off his face with minimum impact. He swung again, trying to get up under Fat Albert's guard, but Fat Albert brought his arms down, forcing Mickey's fist to connect with Fat Albert's muscled chest, an ineffectual punch at best. Mickey swung in with his other hand and caught Fat Albert just below the temple. That one got him, forced his eyes out of focus for a split second, made him waver on his feet. Mickey swung again, catching him right on the bridge of the nose. He was rewarded with a spurt of blood and Fat Albert staggered back.

They stood apart for a moment, staring each other down. They'd felt the weight of each other's fists, now, knew what each man was capable of. And Mickey, despite the naturally resilient shape of Fat Albert's face, had drawn first blood.

The next time they met, they collided like a pair of freight trains. Punches went so fast that no one in the audience could keep track of who was hitting who. Blood filled Mickey's eyes and dripped from Fat Albert's mouth. Mickey hurt from the chest up. Whether or not Fat Albert hurt all that much was unclear. But when the bell rang for the end of the first round, Mickey was relieved for the moment's rest.

He staggered back to his corner, sinking into the seat. Tommy came with a towel, mopping up the blood as Turkish filled Mickey's mouth with water.

"Keep your fucking guard_ up_, Mickey!" Turkish was yelling in his ear. "Up!"

Mickey ignored him, staring across the ring at Fat Albert. His manager kept rinsing his mouth, but the blood kept coming. Fat Albert waved the water away and stuck his fingers into his mouth. He pulled out a tooth.

Mickey smiled.

Round two.

Mickey attacked with renewed vigor, but he couldn't find that magic place, couldn't land that magic punch. Fat Albert's head was made of concrete, apparently. Mickey punched and punched and punched. Fat Albert punched back.

Fat Albert caught Mickey's jaw with such force that for a terrifying second, Mickey thought the bone had snapped. Everything went white and he staggered backward. He saw again the dark alley, saw again the ring of Britts around him, leering at him. He saw the ring leader lying unconscious on the ground in front of him and he saw the crowd surge forward.

Fat Albert got him again and his knees buckled. The ropes caught him before he hit the mat. On instinct, his arms went up, covering his head from any more attacks. His eyes were closed and the world was spinning too fast, trying to throw him off into space. And he saw the cloud darkened sky, saw the drops of rain glistening in the light of the streetlamps as they plummeted down to assault his tender body. The worst night of his life was replaying in his head and he couldn't make it stop.

The bell rang.

Turkish had him by the shoulder. Dragged him to the seat in the corner. Sat him down.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing, Mickey? You're supposed to _win_ this fight, _remember_? Keep your guard _up_!"

"Lick me balls, Turkish," Mickey muttered.

At least his jaw wasn't broken.

"I don't know where the _fuck_ your head is, Mickey, but pull it the fuck out of your ass!"

Mickey glared at Turkish, but Turkish, in reality, had saved him. Turkish had dragged him out of that night, that awful night, forcing him to focus on reality, on the match, on Fat Albert and not a dozen angry, drunken Britts. If his jaw didn't hurt so damned much, he'd throw caution to the wind and give Turkish a big, sloppy kiss. Thank God for the aching jaw.

"Keep your guard up, Mickey!"

Turkish shoved him back into the center of the ring. The world was a little hazy, the sounds too loud and yet muffled. But Fat Albert came over, his fists high and ready, even though he was unsteady on his feet from the beating Mickey had handed to him. He'd been close to victory a few moments ago. He'd tasted it. And it made him want it even more. Mickey wouldn't let him have it.

At least, that was the plan.

A fist caught him on the side of the head. He hit the mat before he even realized he was falling. His head was hot with pain, his eyes struggling to stay open. There was nothing in the world that he could focus on.

And then he saw Turkish's face. Turkish was on his hands and knees outside the ring, his cheek against the mat, no more than two feet away. His mouth moved. His eyes full of urgency. What was he saying? Watch the lips, Mickey, watch the lips. And the words came to him, one by one, slowly as his brain struggled to decipher the guttural sounds into English words.

Get.

The.

Fuck.

Up.

"Mickey! Get the fuck up!"

"Six!"

"Get the fuck up, Mickey!"

"Seven!"

Get the fuck up.

He put his fists flat on the mat and pushed.

"Eight!"

He pushed with all his might, getting his face off the mat.

"Yes, Mickey, yes, yes, get _up_!"

"Nine!"

With his feet flat on the mat, the world wobbled a little too much. He lifted his arms to protect his face. Another hit to his head and he was done. Fat Albert moved in. But Mickey's head was coming back to him, his balance settling him on the balls of his feet. He was ready.

Fat Albert swung. Mickey moved out of the way and caught Albert on the side of the head. Fat Albert staggered, more blood spurting from between his lips. Mickey swayed, the momentum of his own swing threatening to send him off balance. Fat Albert turned and tried to swing again, but again Mickey caught him in the same spot. The side of Albert's face was swollen and ugly, blood matting in his hair. He staggered this time, teetered and just about fell. But he kept to his feet. Mickey had the fucker, now. Fat Albert stood and turned toward Mickey, but his hands were too low.

Mickey caught him square in the face.

Fat Albert fell hard and he didn't get back up again.

* * *

The caravan was a welcome sight. It was dark, dingy and damp, but fuck was it beautiful. Mickey throbbed from the waist up and all he wanted to do was sit. And drink. A lot.

Tommy and Turkish were grinning like a pair of idiots. Mickey had ten to one odds of winning by the beginning of the third round, and they'd each put five hundred pounds on him. Fifty thousand pounds now sat in their pockets thanks to Mickey's bare knuckles. Mickey hadn't had so much at his disposal at the time, so his take was twenty thousand. Still, it was a fuck of a lot more than he'd had when he arrived at the fight.

They sank into the cramped benches around the table, the same table that turned into the bed where Mickey had slept _that_ night. Tommy and Turkish sat side by side, Mickey across from them. He slouched low in the seat with his arms crossed over his chest. His legs were stretched out and his knees touched Turkish's. Another man, another time and he might move his legs to end the contact. But not this man. Not this time.

"Fuck me, Mickey," Tommy said. "We should have gotten you into a fight a fuck of a lot sooner. I wouldn't have complained so much if I would have known it was this profitable. A few more fights and I can go on that vacation I was hoping for."

"Tommy, go get some ice from the freezer, would you?" Turkish said. "Those knuckles look bad and we don't want them swelling up too much. We want you fighting again soon."

"Why the hell do I have to do it? Why can't he get his own fucking ice?"

"Hold on, Tommy. A second ago, you were licking the fucking ground he was walking on, now you won't get off your ass and get him so fucking ice for the fists that made you so much money? What's wrong with you?"

"Alright, I'll get him the ice."

Mickey watched Tommy stand and smiled at him. Tommy scowled. If Mickey didn't know any better, he'd swear the Two Tits were lovers and Tommy was throwing a jealous fit. But Tommy was most _definitely_ straight. And Turkish was most _definitely_ not interested in fucking him.

And then Mickey found his way back to Turkish's eyes and he was trapped by the hazel gaze. They stared at each other for a long time and Mickey remembered the feeling of that grim mouth on his. Damnit, it wasn't a dream. But then why hadn't Turkish said anything about it? Was Turkish ashamed of what he'd done? Or was it truly just in his dreams?

"Here's your fucking ice, Mickey. Good night, Turkish. I'm going home."

"What's the rush, Tommy? Fancy date?"

Tommy's cheeks turned bright red. And he knew without a doubt that Tommy and Turkish weren't fucking.

"Actually, yes, Turkish. I've got a date. More than I can say for you, isn't it?"

"My personal life is none of your fucking business, is it, Tommy?"

"Then my personal life if none of yours."

Tommy turned and stomped out. Mickey smiled as he laid the ice over his knuckles. They were swollen to twice their size and the bruises were starting to show. His face wasn't in much better shape. His chest, in comparison, was only mildly sore.

Turkish looked at Mickey. He looked like he wanted to smile but he was too pissed off at Tommy, or maybe he wanted to be pissed off at Tommy but he was too pleased with all the extra money he'd come across. He shook his head and shifted in the seat, slouching too, so that their legs were pressing together firmly, now, side by side, thigh to thigh. He was doing it, too, the bastard! Was he just fucking with Mickey's head, now, or what?

"You want a drink?"

Mickey grinned in spite of himself. "Now yar talkin' a langu'ge I c'n appreciate, Turkish."

Turkish narrowed his eyes. "What that a yes?"

Mickey nodded. "T'at was a yes."

Turkish stood slowly and headed over to the cupboards. He pulled out the half empty bottle of bourbon two glasses before heading back to the table. He slid in across from Mickey again and poured. Furrowing his brow, Mickey ignored the glass and reached for the bottle instead.

"In light of your recent victory, I'll ignore that breech of manners," Turkish muttered.

He was being ironic or something. Mickey ignored it.

"You've hardly said twelve words all day, Mickey? Is everything alright?"

Mickey nodded slowly as he swallowed down a mouthful of Turkish's bourbon. What the hell was he going to say? W_ell, Turkish, I'm not entirely sure, but I think we fucked last night and the fact that I can't actually remember is driving me insane. Thing is, though, I'm too embarassed to ask about it, so I was rather hoping you would have said something before now. _Somehow, that seemed like something that would cause problems.

"The fight," he said instead and left it at that.

"The fight," Turkish said with a nod. He drained his glass in one long swallow. "Well, then. What do you say, Mickey? The bed in here or the couch at my flat?"

"Lard knows I've lived in a caravan long enough," Mickey said, trying to be as nonchalant as he good while his brain screamed _Your bed!_ "I t'ink I'll take ya up on t'e couch."

Turkish nodded again, pausing as he made sure he was hearing the right words. He sucked back the contents of the other glass as Mickey guzzled from the bottle. He wondered how hard – no pun intended – it would be to sleep on Turkish's couch again, the bed a few titillating feet away. It had been a long, difficult experience before, in the nights leading up to the fight. Now that these torturous images were stuck in his head . . . ? But when Turkish stood, Mickey followed.

Turkish led him to the car, fighting the temptation to glance at him each time it came. He gritted his teeth and waited for it to pass by, trying not to think of the sleepless night he'd spent agonizing in his desire. Damn Mickey and his damn drinking. If he hadn't been so drunk . . .

But then, was it a good thing? Maybe it was best that he was reminded that he needed to fight temptation. Giving in now and then was alright, was forgivable, but he had to always keep it impersonal, always keep it anonymous. He had to be sure, damned sure, that he wasn't going to fall into another relationship.

Sure, there was a gay community in London, and sure they were more or less left to their own business, so long as they kept themselves quiet. But the dark and dangerous underworld that Turkish belonged to didn't tolerate any of _that_. Men were men and men fucked women and that was the end of it. Queers need not apply. And Turkish was so deep into that he wasn't sure he could climb back out, not now. Tommy wouldn't let him. And the diamond hadn't saved him, like he hoped it would.

He got the distinct impression that Doug the Head and Avi the American had fucked him royally. Sitting at the desk and counting the zeros, the money had sounded good. But transfer dollars to pounds, split it in half and spend it frivolously, and all of a sudden, the zeros started to drop away. A nicer flat plus furniture, a better caravan and a new car and his share of the diamond money was gone, save for the 'nest egg' he'd squirreled away for his later years. He could only imagine how Tommy was faring with his share. And the dog? The stupid dog had become toe jam to an eighteen wheeler a mere week after the diamond had been dug out of its stomach.

So he had no choice but to keep working. And if he had to keep working, he had to stay straight, at least as far as everyone else could tell. And to stay straight . . .

But damn Mickey. There was something about him, behind the nice face and nicer body, something sharp and dangerous that made him thrilling mixed with something sad and lonely that piqued the male need to protect. He was a man grieving, but he was a Pikey. And Turkish wanted him.

He'd almost had him, too. But Mickey spent the night puking his guts out. He'd just about passed out on the bathroom floor when Turkish practically dragged him back to the couch. And the next morning, he'd said nothing. Either he didn't remember or he was too embarrassed. If he didn't remember, though, there was a good chance that he didn't remember everything Turkish had said. If that was the case, Turkish wanted to leave well enough alone. Mickey would only be with him for a little longer, anyway. Before long, he'd have enough money for a flat of his own, or maybe a car, or maybe a brand new caravan. And the Pikey in him would make the urge to disappear unable to ignore. Then where would Turkish be? Dumped. Alone. And queer.

So he drove back to his flat without a word. Mickey had retreated into himself, sitting slouched in the car seat with his hat tipped down over his eyes, his arms crossed over his chest again, but his hands carefully balanced on his own arms lest he hurt those swollen knuckles.

Glancing over, Turkish saw that Mickey had brought the bottle of bourbon. It was almost empty. There was a thirst in Mickey that was starting to scare Turkish, which stood to be only another reason why _not_ to get involved on an emotional level. He couldn't handle another alcoholic in his life.

Back at the flat, he parked and climbed out. Mickey climbed out and staggered when his feet hit the pavement. Up the stairs, they climbed. Tommy was probably out, blowing his cash on whatever chick he'd found, having a damned good time. But all Turkish could think about was his own bed. He couldn't go out, not tonight. He was thinking too much about Mickey and thinking about Mickey would land him in the wrong kind of bars.

He closed the door behind him, locking it and kicking off his shoes. Mickey was already on the couch. Stifling a sigh, Turkish went into his room, stripping out of his clothes. He'd taken off his coat, his socks and his pants when he heard Mickey fumbling with the lock. Rolling his eyes, he stepped back out into the living room. Mickey was trying to get back out and was having a hard time of it.

"Where the fuck are you going?" Turkish muttered.

"Fer anot'er drink," Mickey mumbled, half into his own chest. He was hard enough to understand when he was sober. "Let me out."

"I think you've had enough for tonight, Mickey," Turkish sighed. "Get some sleep before you keel over."

Maybe it was the booze, or maybe it was the left over adrenaline from the fight. Maybe it was the pent up sexual tension that was so obviously eating at him in the pit of his stomach. But whatever it was, Mickey snapped. He spun on his heel and threw the bottle at Turkish's head. Turkish flinched, but there was no need. The bottle missed wildly, smashing against the wall and showering the floor with shards of glass and a small puddle of bourdon.

"Fuck ya, Turkish!" he shrieked. "Yar not me fuckin' ma! Put _her_ in t'e ground already, 'cause o' ya! An' yar not family, took t'at from me, too! Not even a fuckin' friend! So what t'e fuck does t'at make ya? Huh? What t'e fuck d'ya t'ink y'are t'at makes ya t'ink ya can tell me what t'e fuck I can do?"

Turkish furrowed his brow, fighting against his own anger long enough to figure out what, exactly, Mickey had just said. He held up his hands as his brain cranked away, changing mangled syllables and replacing lost ones until he had proper words instead of Pikey slur.

"Calm then fuck down, Mickey," Turkish said, the anger bubbling just below the surface, ready to snap, but he kept it under control. "It was just a suggestion. Now sit the fuck down before you hurt yourself."

"Ya'll be t'e only one hurtin'," Mickey growled, his body tight and coiled like the body of a tiger.

"It wasn't a threat, Mickey, just a genuine concern," Turkish said. "Sit down and calm down."

He sneered, but somehow the sneer slowly contorted until his face was a mask of pain. Following Turkish's advice, though, Mickey staggered over to the couch and slumped down. He leaned forward, holding his head in his hands and taking long, slow breaths. Turkish quietly breathed a sigh of relief. Angry as he had been in response to Mickey's explosion, facing down an angry Pikey felt a hell of a lot like staring down the business side of a loaded gun. It wasn't an experience he wanted to repeat.

He eased closer to the couch from behind, walking softly as if he could sneak up on Mickey's hostility and catch it off guard. Ever since he'd brought Mickey home, the Pikey had been a loose cannon – more so than usual. He spent long stretches of time inside his own skull, staring off into space and hardly paying attention to his surroundings, if at all. When he did pay attention, he could be light and bubbly, joking with him and Tommy, laughing at all the appropriate places. But Turkish knew an act when he saw one and Mickey was faking it. His anger was always right there, just below the surface, waiting to strike. Like now, it needed nearly no provoking at all. It wanted something, searched for a victim. And apparently, Fat Albert hadn't been enough to satiate it.

Turkish reached the couch, peering over the back. Mickey's shoulder's weren't as tense anymore, his head still in his hands. His chest heaved as if he was struggling to breathe. He was a man on the brink, a man about ready to break.

He eased around the edge of the couch, sinking down beside Mickey. He leaned close, wanting to touch Mickey, to let him know that he wasn't alone, that whatever weight he bore, he wasn't bearing by himself. But he was also afraid of touching Mickey and alighting his body with electric desire. This clearly wasn't the time.

"Mickey . . ."

He didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to tell Mickey that had cared without actually telling him that he cared. He didn't know what would make the situation worse and what would make it better. Without any words, he was left to touch. Touch was the universal language. When words failed, a gentle touch could speak volumes. So Turkish reached out and touched Mickey, putting a hand on Mickey's back. His desire remained dormant, sensing that the situation was too delicate.

Mickey exploded at the touch, though. His back arched and he shot to his feet, knocking Turkish's hand away. Turkish sat back, powerless to do anything but watch. Mickey spun on him, the anger back and written all over his face.

"I don't fuckin' well get ya, Turkish," Mickey said. "D'ya want t' fuck me or not?"

Turkish had to pause and let his brain catch up. He was almost certain he knew what Mickey had said, but he wanted to make sure there was no shadow of doubt. This was exciting, dark, exciting, dangerous, exciting territory and there was no room for error.

"What?" he asked softly.

Mickey went on, apparently oblivious Turkish had said anything. "I mean, fuck me. I git all t'e fuckin' signals from ya and I t'ink somet'in' happened last night, but I can't fuckin' remembar, an' I keep thinkin' t'at if somet'in' did happen, why t'e fuck haven't ya said somet'in' about it? I've got enough fuckin' problems here, Turkish, I don't need ya fuckin' wit' my head like t'is."

Turkish blinked. He should have known something like this was coming. Mickey didn't remember what had happened the night before and they had been tense and awkward all damned day. He should have known that it would explode as soon as he added booze to Mickey's brain. And yet somehow, he hadn't seen it coming. And he was at a complete loss for words.

Since his brain couldn't pull up anything better to say, he went with his last response.

"What?"

"Fuck, Turkish, would ya say somethin' else?" Mickey snapped.

Turkish opened his mouth to say something, but he couldn't think of anything. He truly understood the phrase 'brain dead' in that moment. He didn't really know why his brain had decided to stop working. Maybe the force of Mickey's anger had brought a level of intimidation that made it hard to think, or maybe because it was so long he actually _talked_ about _that_ part of him. But no words seemed to fit the situation, no matter how hard he tried to think.

Mickey started to deflate. Turkish saw fear in his eyes, a wild, primal fear that made Mickey take a step back, as if he was afraid that it was now Turkish's turn to explode. It was almost as if he thought Turkish's loss for words was caused by anger, repulsion.

Turkish shook his head and pushed himself to his feet. Spreading his hands to show there was nothing hostile in his intent, he stepped closer. Mickey stared at him, trying to read him, the alcohol maybe making his brain too sluggish to properly upraise the situation.

"Mickey," Turkish said, but the words stopped there. What else was there to say? How could he put what he was thinking into words?

Mickey's brain seemed to kick into gear and the fear was gone. He stepped closer, sucking in a deep breath, so deep that it seemed like he was getting ready take a deep, deep dive into icy cold water. Just as Turkish began to sense the sudden explosion of chemistry between them, Mickey leaned in to catch Turkish's mouth in a searing kiss. Turkish groaned against Mickey, feeling his body awaken – again. He'd felt like this, this rush of hot pleasure, just the night before, but it had come screeching to a halt too suddenly. And his body had been begging for a conclusion since. Now the conclusion had arrived. He hoped. Just so long as Mickey didn't get sick again.

Mickey folded his hands behind Turkish's neck, dragging him into the kiss with such urgency that it seemed like he hoped the mounting passion would cure all his heartaches. Turkish groaned again, the heat of it so intense that he felt like he was getting burned. His heart raced, pounded. He could feel it in his throat, in his fingers, in his gut, in his toes. And when Mickey pressed his body close, Turkish could swear he could feel Mickey's heartbeat, too.

Mickey broke from the kiss to catch his breath, then plunged in again. Turkish reached out to him. The urgency was infectious and soon he found he wanted Mickey so bad that it hurt. It hurt the very fibers of his being. He slid his hands up under Mickey's shirt, along the small of his back and then higher, until his fingers reached Mickey's shoulder blades. Here and there, he could feel the raised bump of scar tissue where the lines of his tattoos crossed his flesh. And then there was the heat of him, the heat of his body that Turkish could feel through his clothes. He desperately wanted to feel more. He tugged at that shirt, trying to bring it up over Mickey's head, but their lips were locked and he couldn't break the kiss long enough to get rid of that damned shirt.

Again, Mickey broke the kiss and lifted his arms up high, wriggling out of his shirt with Turkish's help. And then his hands attacked Turkish's shirt, peeling it from his body, pulling it so hard that a button flew off. Their bare chests pressed together, flesh against flesh, the thin sheen of sweat on each of their bodies mingling together.

This time, Turkish broke for air, his entire body aching with desire. Getting rid of their shirts was only a small accomplishment. The real prize was the pants. He needed to get rid of Mickey's pants.

Mickey, apparently, had the same thought.

His hands plunged down, sliding along Turkish's chest. His fingers slipped beneath the band of Turkish's boxers, fingernails scraping softly against the skin of Turkish's hips. The contact made his skin feel tight and tingly all over, all the hairs standing on end. But Mickey was teasing him. His fingers trailed close, so close, but not close enough. The bastard.

Turkish reached for Mickey's belt, but Mickey batted his hands away. Then his fingers went back to teasing, back to suggesting. Turkish groaned, reaching for Mickey again, leaning for a kiss, but Mickey shoved him away. Mickey's lips touched Turkish's shoulder, his mouth moist and hot and his hands . . . Turkish groaned and reached around to Mickey's back, trying to drag Mickey closer. But again Mickey thwarted him.

"Fuck, Mickey," Turkish breathed.

"Now ya can talk, can ya?" Mickey murmured against Turkish's shoulder.

Turkish reached up, sliding his fingers through Mickey's hair and grabbing a fistful. He pulled Mickey's head back, watching with delight as Mickey's nose wrinkled as his scalp no doubt prickled with a sharp but mild pain. Turkish swooped in for the kiss, not letting Mickey escape. Mickey groaned, his tongue snaking into Turkish's mouth as his hands slid back up to Turkish's chest. Turkish slid his other hand along the small of Mickey's back, along the subtle curve and down to the hem of his pants. He tried to get his fingers inside, but the belt was too tight. With a grunt, he reached down, making another try for that belt, but Mickey was ready for that. His fighter's muscles made him move fast, batting Turkish's hands away. Turkish made a guttural sound in the back of his throat, feeling frustration bubble in him. It was a game, of course, a game of dominance and control, almost as if Mickey was getting revenge for the long day's confusion he felt. It was a game that Turkish probably wasn't going to win.

Mickey pushed Turkish's boxers away, letting them fall to the floor. Turkish sucked in a deep breath, looking Mickey in the eye and seeing a mischief there that made his heart skip a beat. That one look was more thrilling than anything before it, more exciting than any kiss or touch. It was the look of a man who knew how to please – and how to frustrate, torture and tease.

And then he wasn't looking Mickey in the eye anymore. He was looking down at the top of his head. Mickey crouched in front of him, his hands on Turkish's hips as if to keep himself steady, his breath hot and moist on the head of Turkish's cock. Turkish clenched his teeth, his body tensing as he reached down, sliding his fingers through Mickey's hair. His body tingled with pleasure and anticipation, but he didn't want to make too much noise, too much fuss, just in case Mickey decided to take it as an invitation to torture further.

His bottom lip brushed against the head, soft and warm, sending a jolt of pleasure through Turkish's body. His knees were weak as he struggled against the need for more. Don't give Mickey that much power, he told himself. But Mickey's tongue snaked out, sliding along the head for a brief moment. Turkish groaned, his fingers curling around Mickey's silky hair. Instead of making Mickey back off, it seemed to egg him on, and he opened his mouth and took Turkish's cock in, his tongue flicking across the head as his lips slid along the shaft. Turkish groaned again, his toes curling painfully against the floor.

Mickey sucked and licked with all the skill of an expert and soon Turkish felt pressure building in his body, the pressure of release on its way. His eyes were squeezed shut, his breathing heavy, Mickey's pace getting quicker and quicker. Turkish's entire body pulsed with pleasure and his knees quivered, threatening to dump him on the floor. And then Mickey stopped. His mouth came away, leaving Turkish's cock bare and cold, Mickey's spit drying on him fast. Turkish whimpered in spite of himself, his entire body trembling ever so slightly, just beneath the skin. Mickey stood and grabbed Turkish's shoulders, dragging him in for another kiss. Turkish groaned again, wrapping his arms around Mickey and dragging him closer, pressing their bodies together, letting Mickey feel his need. But Mickey knew it was there, surely. He'd created it, after all.

Mickey broke the kiss, taking the slightest step back. The belt finally opened, his pants falling to the floor, quickly followed by his briefs. And there he was, naked, hard and perfect.

He stepped in, dragging Turkish into another kiss. Turkish felt the desire in the kiss, stronger than anything else he'd felt before, stronger than anything that Turkish had experienced. Mickey wanted this like other people wanted air. Turkish let his hands roam Mickey's body, touching every smooth muscle, every gentle curve, every inch of flesh, trying to give Mickey what he craved while he enjoyed the body against him.

Mickey broke the kiss, panting, his cheeks flushed, his mouth gleaming. But his eyes were alive in a way Turkish hadn't seen from him ever before. He smiled, a slow, sensual smile and leaned in, his lips hovering beside Turkish's ear.

"Now, fuck me, Turkish," he breathed.

Turkish happily obliged.

* * *

Merry Christmas

-Tashue


End file.
